A  DAY  AT  LA 
GUERRE'SAND 
OTHER  DPK5 
BEING  NINE 
SKETCHES  BY 
F.HOPKINS  ON  SMITH 


IC-NRLF 


MDCCCLXXXXH 


GIFT   OF 
HGMA?         •  O  BACO 


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A  DAY  AT  LAGUERRE'S 
AND  OTHER  DAYS 


A  DAY  AT 
LAGUERRE'S 
AND  OTHER 
DAYS  BEING 
SKETCHES  BY 


F.HOPKINSONSM1 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  AND  COM 
PANY  THE  RIVERSIDE  PRESS 
CAMBRIDGE  MDCCCXCII 


COPYRIGHT,  1892,  BY 
F.  HOPKINSON  SMITH 
AI.L  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


TO  MY  OUT-DOOR  FRIENDS 
EVERYWHERE  :  MY  GOOD 
ESPERO,  WHOM  I  LOVE; 
MANUEL  AND  HIS  SWEET 
HEART  ;  LITTLE  LUCETTE 
WITH  THE  VELVET  EYES  ;  BIG- 
HEARTED  CAPTAIN  JOE,  AND  EVEN 
ISAACS  — 

ISAAC  ISAACS, 

THE  UNFAITHFUL,  WHO  IS  WATCH 
ING  TO  FLEECE  ME  AGAIN  WHEN 
NEXT  I  VISIT  CONSTANTINOPLE 


292001 


THE  INTRODUCTION  TO 
THE  READER 

[ESE  slight  sketches  are 
the  records  of  some  more 
idle  days,  stolen,  I  must 
confess,  from  a  busy  and 
far  more  practical  life. 
I  have  committed  these 
depredations  upon  myself  for  years,  and 
have  then  run  off  to  the  far  corners 
of  the  earth  and  sat  down  in  some  for 
gotten  nook  to  enjoy  my  plunder. 

The  villainy,  strange  to  say,  has  only 
served  to  open  my  eyes  the  wider — 
and  my  heart  too  for  that  matter  —  and 
to  bring  me  closer  to  many  fellow 
tramps  who  have  delighted  my  soul,  and 
still  do. 

Idle  tramps  if  you  will,  who  love  the 
sunlight  and  simple  fare  and  simple 
ways ;  ne'er-do-wells,  who  haunt  the 
cafe's  and  breakfast  at  twelve ;  vagrants 
made  millionaires  by  a  melon  and  a  ci 
garette  ;  mendicants  who  own  a  donkey 
and  a  pair  of  panniers,  have  three  feast 
days  a  week,  earn  but  half  a  handful  of 
copper  coin,  and  sing  all  day  for  the 
very  joy  of  living. 


The  Intro-  if  you  too  can  unhook  your  neck 
£rom  tke  new  car  Of  Juggernaut  — 
American  Progress — which  is  crushing 
out  the  sweetness  of  an  old-timed, 
simpler  life,  and  would  gain  a  little  free 
dom,  turn  bandit  yourself.  If  you  have 
the  pluck  to  take  a  long  rest,  the  sun  is 
still  blazing  along  the  Grand  Canal  in 
dear  old  Venice.  If  you  can  only  mus 
ter  up  courage  for  a  short  breathing 
spell,  —  even  a  day,  —  there  is  still  a 
chop  to  be  served  under  the  vines  over 
hanging  the  Bronx. 

The  stories  are  all  true.  Many  of 
the  names  are  genuine,  and  everybody 
is  still  alive.  Most  of  them  will  be  wait 
ing  for  me  when  I  run  off  again. 

F.  H.  S. 

New  York,  March,  1892. 


A   TABLE   OF    THE   CON 
TENTS   OF  THIS   BOOK 

?|?  I.  A  Day  at  Laguerre's,  i  ;  II. 
Espero  Gorgoni,  Gondolier,  23 ;  III. 
Under  the  Minarets,  47 ;  IV.  An 
Escapade  in  Cordova,  75 ;  V.  La 
Canal  de  la  Viga,  95 ;  VI.  A  Bulga 
rian  Opera  Bouffe,  102 ;  VII.  Cap 
tain  Joe,  141 ;  VIII.  Hutchins,  162  ; 
IX.  Six  Hours  in  Squantico,  169 


I.  A  DAY  AT  LAGUERRE'S 

is  the  most  delightful 
of  French  inns,  in  the 
quaintest  of  French 
settlements.  As  you 
rush  by  in  one  of 
the  innumerable  trains 
that  pass  it  daily,  you 
may  catch  glimpses  of  tall  trees  trail 
ing  their  branches  in  the  still  stream, 
—  hardly  a  dozen  yards  wide,  —  of  flocks 
of  white  ducks  paddling  together,  and  of 
queer  punts  drawn  up  on  the  shelving 
shore  or  tied  to  soggy,  patched-up  land 
ing-stairs. 

If  the  sun  shines,  you  can  see,  now 
and  then,  between  the  trees,  a  figure 
kneeling  at  the  water's  edge,  bending 
over  a  pile  of  clothes,  washing,  —  her 
head  bound  with  a  red  handkerchief. 

If  you  are  quick,  the  miniature  river 
will  open  just  before  you  round  the 
curve,  disclosing  in  the  distance  groups 
of  willows,  and  a  rickety  foot-bridge 
perched  up  on  poles  to  keep  it  dry.  All 
this  you  see  in  a  flash. 


^  But  you  .must  stop  at  the  old-fash- 
res  ioned  station,  within  ten  minutes  of  the 
Harlem  River,  cross  the  road,  skirt 
an  old  garden  bound  with  a  fence  and 
bursting  with  flowers,  and  so  pass  on 
through  a  bare  field  to  the  water's  edge, 
before  you  catch  sight  of  the  cosy  little 
houses  lining  the  banks,  with  garden 
fences  cutting  into  the  water,  the  ar 
bors  covered  with  tangled  vines,  and  the 
boats  crossing  back  and  forth. 

I  have  a  love  for  the  out-of-the-way 
places  of  the  earth  when  they  bristle  all 
over  with  the  quaint  and  the  old  and 
the  odd,  and  are  mouldy  with  the  pictur 
esque.  But  here  is  an  in-the-way  place, 
all  sunshine  and  shimmer,  with  never  a 
fringe  of  mould  upon  it,  and  yet  you  lose 
your  heart  at  a  glance.  It  is  as  charm 
ing  in  its  boat  life  as  an  old  Holland 
canal;  it  is  as  delightful  in  its  shore  life 
as  the  Seine;  and  it  is  as  picturesque 
and  entrancing  in  its  sylvan  beauty  as 
the  most  exquisite  of  English  streams. 

The  thousands  of  workaday  souls  who 
pass  this  spot  daily  in  their  whirl  out 
and  in  the  great  city  may  catch  all  these 
glimpses  of  shade  and  sunlight  over  the 
edges  of  their  journals,  and  any  one  of 
them  living  near  the  city's  centre,  with 
a  stout  pair  of  legs  in  his  knickerbockers 
and  the  breath  of  the  morning  in  his 

2 


heart,  can  reach  it  afoot  any  day  before  A  Day  at 
breakfast ;  and  yet  not  one  in  a  hundred  La&ierre'>s 
knows  that  this  ideal  nook  exists. 

Even  this  small  percentage  would  be 
apt  to  tell  of  the  delights  of  Devonshire 
and  of  the  charm  of  the  upper  Thames, 
with  its  tall  rushes  and  low-thatched 
houses  and  quaint  bridges,  as  if  the 
picturesque  ended  there ;  forgetting  that 
right  here  at  home  there  wanders  many 
a  stream  with  its  breast  all  silver  that 
the  trees  courtesy  to  as  it  sings  through 
meadows  waist-high  in  lush  grass,  —  as 
exquisite  a  picture  as  can  be  found  this 
beautiful  land  over. 

So,  this  being  an  old  tramping-ground 
of  mine,  I  have  left  the  station  with  its 
noise  and  dust  behind  me  this  lovely 
morning  in  June,  have  stopped  long 
enough  to  twist  a  bunch  of  sweet  peas 
through  the  garden  fence,  and  am  stand 
ing  on  the  bank  waiting  for  some  sign 
of  life  at  Madame  Laguerre's.  I  dis 
cover  that  there  is  no  boat  on  my  side 
of  the  stream.  But  that  is  of  no  mo 
ment.  On  the  other  side,  within  a  bis 
cuit's  toss,  so  narrow  is  it,  there  are 
two  boats  ;  and  on  the  landing-wharf, 
which  is  only  a  few  planks  wide,  sup 
porting  a  tumbledown  flight  of  steps 
leading  to  a  vine-covered  terrace  above, 
rest  the  oars. 
3 


A  Day  «/        j  jay  my  traps  down  on  the  bank  and  . 
s  begin  at  the  top  of  my  voice  :  — 

"  Madame  Laguerre  !  Madame  La- 
guerre  !  Send  Lucette  with  the  boat." 

For  a  long  time  there  is  no  response. 
A  young  girl  drawing  water  a  short  dis 
tance  below,  hearing  my  cries,  says  she 
will  come  ;  and  some  children  above, 
who  know  me,  begin  paddling  over.  I 
decline  them  all.  Experience  tells  me 
it  is  better  to  wait  for  madame. 

In  a  few  minutes  she  pushes  aside  the 
leaves,  peers  through,  and  calls  out :  — 

"  Ah  !  it  is  that  horrible  painter.  Go 
away!  I  have  nothing  for  you.  You 
are  hungry  again  that  you  come  ?  " 

"  Very,  madame.  Where  is  Lu 
cette  ? " 

"  Lucette  !  Lucette  !  It  is  always 
Lucette.  Luc-e-t-t-e  !  "  This  in  a  shrill 
key.  "  It  is  the  painter.  Come  quick." 

I  have  known  Lucette  for  years,  even 
when  she  was  a  barefooted  little  tangle- 
hair,  peeping  at  me  with  her  great  brown 
eyes  from  beneath  her  ragged  straw  hat. 
She  wears  highheeled  slippers  now,  and 
sometimes  on  Sundays  dainty  silk  stock 
ings,  and  her  hair  is  braided  down  her 
back,  little  French  Marguerite  that  she 
is,  and  her  hat  is  never  ragged  any  more, 
nor  her  hair  tangled.  Her  eyes,  though, 
are  still  the  same  velvety,  half -drooping 

4 


eyes,  always  opening  and  shutting  and  A  Day  at 
never  still.  Lag**** 

As  she  springs  into  the  boat  and  pulls 
towards  me  I  note  how  round  and  trim 
she  is,  and  before  we  have  landed  at 
Madame  Laguerre's  feet  I  have  counted 
up  Lucette's  birthdays,  —  those  that  I 
know  myself,  —  and  find  to  my  surprise 
that  she  must  be  eighteen.  We  have 
always  been  the  best  of  friends,  Lucette 
and  I,  ever  since  she  looked  over  my 
shoulder  years  ago  and  watched  me  dot 
in  the  outlines  of  her  boat,  with  her  dog 
Mustif  sitting  demurely  in  the  bow. 

Madame,  her  mother,  begins  again: — 

"Do  you  know  that  it  is  Saturday 
that  you  come  again  to  bother  ?  Now 
it  will  be  a  filet,  of  course,  with  mush 
rooms  and  tomato  salad  ;  and  there  are 
no  mushrooms,  and  no  tomatoes,  and  no 
thing.  You  are  horrible.  Then,  when 
I  get  it  ready,  you  say  you  will  come 
at  three.  '  Yes,  madame  ;  at  three,'  — 
mimicking  me,  —  '  sure,  very  sure.' 
But  it  is  four,  five,  o'clock  —  and  then 
everything  is  burned  up  waiting.  Ah  ! 
I  know  you." 

This  goes  on  always,  and  has  for 
years.  Presently  she  softens,  for  she 
is  the  most  tender-hearted  of  women, 
and  would  do  anything  in  the  world  to 
please  me. 
5 


A  Day  <*/  «  But,  then,  you  will  be  tired,  and  of 
course  yOU  must  have  something.  I  re 
member  now  there  is  a  chicken.  How 
will  the  chicken  do  ?  Oh,  the  chicken 
it  is  lovely,  charmant.  And  some  pease 
—  fresh.  Monsieur  picked  them  himself 
this  morning.  And  some  Roquefort, 
with  an  olive.  Ah  !  You  leave  it  to 
me  ;  but  at  three  —  no  later  —  not  one 
minute.  Sacrt !  Vous  ties  le  diable  ! ' ' 

As  we  walk  under  the  arbor  and  by 
the  great  trees,  towards  the  cottage, 
Lucette  following  with  the  oars,  I  in 
quire  after  monsieur,  and  find  that  he  is 
in  the  city,  and  very  well  and  very  busy, 
and  will  return  at  sundown.  He  has  a 
shop  of  his  own  in  the  upper  part  where 
he  makes  passe-partouts.  Here,  at  his 
home,  madame  maintains  a  simple  res 
taurant  for  tramps  like  me. 

These  delightful  people  are  old  friends 
of  mine,  Francois  Laguerre  and  his  wife 
and  their  only  child  Lucette.  They 
have  lived  here  for  nearly  a  quarter  of  a 
century.  He  is  a  straight,  silver-haired 
old  Frenchman  of  sixty,  who  left  Paris, 
between  two  suns,  nearly  forty  years 
ago,  with  a  gendarme  close  at  his  heels, 
a  red  cockade  under  his  coat,  and  an 
intense  hatred  in  his  heart  for  that  "  lit 
tle  nobody,"  Napoleon  III. 

If  you  met  him  on  the  boulevard  you 

6 


would  look  for  the  decoration  on  his  A  Day  at 
lapel,  remarking  to  yourself,  "  Some  re- 
tired  officer  on  half  pay."  If  you  met 
him  at  the  railway  station  opposite  you 
would  say,  "  A  French  professor  return 
ing  to  his  school."  Both  of  these  sur 
mises  are  partly  wrong,  and  both  partly 
right.  Monsieur  Laguerre  has  had  a 
history.  One  can  see  by  the  deep  lines 
in  his  forehead  and  by  the  firm  set  of 
his  eyes  and  mouth  that  it  has  been  an 
eventful  one. 

His  wife  is  a  few  years  his  junior, 
short  and  stout,  and  thoroughly  French 
down  to  the  very  toes  of  her  felt  slip 
pers.  She  is  devoted  to  Frangois  and 
Lucette,  the  best  of  cooks,  and,  in  spite 
of  her  scoldings,  good -nature  itself. 
As  soon  as  she  hears  me  calling  there 
arise  before  her  the  visions  of  many 
delightful  dinners  prepared  for  me  by 
her  own  hand  and  ready  to  the  minute 
• —  all  spoiled  by  my  belated  sketches. 
So  she  begins  to  scold  before  I  am  out 
of  the  boat  or  in  it,  for  that  matter. 

Across  the  fence  next  to  Laguerre's 
lives  a  confrere,  a  brother  exile,  Monsieur 
Marmosette,  who  also  has  a  shop  in  the 
city,  where  he  carves  fine  ivories.  Mon 
sieur  Marmosette  has  only  one  son.  He 
too  is  named  Francois,  after  his  father's 
old  friend.  Farther  down  on  both  sides 


A  Day  «/  of  the  narrow  stream  front  the  cottages 
of  other  frien(js>  all  Frenchmen;  and 
near  the  propped-up  bridge  an  Italian 
who  knew  Garibaldi  burrows  in  a  low, 
slanting  cabin,  which  is  covered  with 
vines.  I  remember  a  dish  of  spaghetti 
under  those  vines,  and  a  flask  of  Chianti 
from  its  cellar,  all  cobwebs  and  plaited 
straw,  that  left  a  taste  of  Venice  in  my 
mouth  for  days. 

As  there  is  only  the  great  bridge 
above,  which  helps  the  country  road 
across  the  little  stream,  and  the  little 
foot-bridge  below,  and  as  there  is  no 
path  or  road,  —  all  the  houses  fronting 
the  water,  —  the  Bronx  here  is  really 
the  only  highway,  and  so  everybody  must 
needs  keep  a  boat.  This  is  why  the 
stream  is  crowded  in  the  warm  after 
noons  with  all  sorts  of  water  crafts 
loaded  with  whole  families,  even  to  the 
babies,  taking  the  air,  or  crossing  from 
bank  to  bank  in  their  daily  pursuits. 

There  is  a  quality  which  one  never 
sees  in  nature  until  she  has  been  rough- 
handled  by  man  and  has  outlived  the 
usage.  It  is  the  picturesque.  In  the 
deep  recesses  of  the  primeval  forest, 
along  the  mountain-slope,  and  away  up 
the  tumbling  brook,  nature  may  be  ma 
jestic,  beautiful,  and  even  sublime  ;  but 
she  is  never  picturesque.  This  quality 

8 


comes  only  after  the  axe  and  the  saw  A  Day at 
have  let  the  sunlight  into  the  dense  ***** 
tangle  and  have  scattered  the  falling 
timber,  or  the  round  of  the  water-wheel 
has  divided  the  rush  of  the  brook.  It  is 
so  here.  Some  hundred  years  ago,  along 
this  quiet,  silvery  stream  were  encamped 
the  troops  of  the  struggling  colonies, 
and,  later,  the  great  estates  of  the  sur 
vivors  stretched  on  each  side  for  miles. 
The  willows  that  now  fringe  these 
banks  were  saplings  then ;  and  they  and 
the  great  butternuts  were  only  spared 
because  their  arching  limbs  shaded  the 
cattle  knee -deep  along  the  shelving 
banks. 

Then  came  the  long  interval  that 
succeeds  that  deadly  conversion  of  the 
once  sweet  farming  lands,  redolent  with 
clover,  into  that  barren  waste  —  subur 
ban  property.  The  conflict  that  had 
lasted  since  the  days  when  the  pioneer's 
axe  first  rang  through  the  stillness  of  the 
forest  was  nearly  over  ;  nature  saw  her 
chance,  took  courage,  and  began  that 
regeneration  which  is  exclusively  her 
own.  The  weeds  ran  riot ;  tall  grasses 
shot  up  into  the  sunlight,  concealing 
the  once  well-trimmed  banks  ;  and  great 
tangles  of  underbrush  and  alders  made 
lusty  efforts  to  hide  the  traces  of  man's 
unceasing  cruelty.  Lastly  came  this  lit- 
9 


A  Day  <nf  tie  group  of  poor  people  from  the  Seine 
s  and  the  Marne  and  lent  a  helping  hand, 
bringing  with  them  something  of  their 
old  life  at  home,  —  their  boats,  rude 
landings,  patched-up  water-stairs,  fences, 
arbors,  and  vine-covered  cottages,  —  un 
consciously  completing  the  picture  and 
adding  the  one  thing  needful  —  a  human 
touch.  So  nature,  having  outlived  the 
wrongs  of  a  hundred  years,  has  here 
with  busy  fingers  so  woven  a  web  of 
weed,  moss,  trailing  vine,  and  low-branch 
ing  tree  that  there  is  seen  a  newer  and 
more  entrancing  quality  in  her  beauty, 
which,  for  want  of  a  better  term,  we  call 
the  picturesque. 

But  madame  is  calling  that  the  big 
boat  must  be  bailed  out  ;  that  if  I  am 
ever  coming  back  to  dinner  it  is  abso 
lutely  necessary  that  I  should  go  away. 
This  boat  is  not  of  extraordinary  size. 
It  is  called  the  big  boat  from  the  fact 
that  it  has  one  more  seat  than  the  one 
in  which  Lucette  rowed  me  over ;  and 
not  being  much  in  use  except  on  Sun 
day,  is  generally  half  full  of  water.  Lu 
cette  insists  on  doing  the  bailing.  She 
has  very  often  performed  this  service, 
and  I  have  always  considered  it  as  in 
cluded  in  the  curious  scrawl  of  a  bill 
which  madame  gravely  presents  at  the 
end  of  each  of  my  days  here,  beginning 

10 


in  small  printed  type  with  "  Francois  A  Day  at 
Laguerre,    Restaurant    Frangais,"   and  **&*"** 
ending  with  "  Coffee  10  cents." 

But  this  time  I  resist,  remarking  that 
she  will  hurt  her  hands  and  soil  her 
shoes,  and  that  it  is  all  right  as  it  is. 

To  this  Frangois  the  younger,  who  is 
leaning  over  the  fence,  agrees,  telling 
Lucette  to  wait  until  he  gets  a  pail. 

Lucette  catches  his  eye,  colors  a  little, 
and  says  she  will  fetch  it. 

There  is  a  break  in  the  palings  through 
which  they  both  disappear,  but  I  am  half 
way  out  on  the  stream,  with  my  traps 
and  umbrella  on  the  seat  in  front  and 
my  coat  and  waistcoat  tucked  under  the 
bow,  before  they  return. 

For  half  a  mile  down-stream  there  is 
barely  a  current.  Then  comes  a  break 
of  a  dozen  yards  just  below  the  perched- 
up  bridge,  and  the  stream  divides,  one 
part  rushing  like  a  mill-race,  and  the 
other  spreading  itself  softly  around  the 
roots  of  leaning  willows,  oozing  through 
beds  of  water-plants,  and  creeping  under 
masses  of  wild  grapes  and  underbrush. 
Below  this  is  a  broad  pasture  fringed 
with  another  and  larger  growth  of  wil 
lows.  Here  the  weeds  are  breast-high, 
and  in  early  autumn  they  burst  into  pur 
ple  asters,  and  white  immortelles,  and 
goldenrod,  and  flaming  sumac. 
ii 


A  Day  a/  if  a  painter  had  a  lifetime  to  spare, 
and  ioved  thjs  sort  Of  material, —  the 
willows,  hillsides,  and  winding  stream, 
—  he  would  grow  old  and  weary  before 
he  could  paint  it  all ;  and  yet  no  two  of 
his  compositions  need  be  alike.  I  have 
tied  my  boat  under  these  same  willows 
for  ten  years  back,  and  I  have  not  yet 
exhausted  one  corner  of  this  neglected 
pasture. 

There  may  be  those  who  go  a-fishing 
and  enjoy  it.  The  arranging  and  select 
ing  of  flies,  the  joining  of  rods,  the  pro 
spective  comfort  in  high  water-boots, 
the  creel  with  the  leather  strap,  —  every 
crease  in  it  a  reminder  of  some  day  with 
out  care  or  fret,  —  all  this  may  bring 
the  flush  to  the  cheek  and  the  eager 
kindling  of  the  eye,  and  a  certain  sort 
of  rest  and  happiness  may  come  with  it ; 
but  —  they  have  never  gone  a-sketch- 
ing  !  Hauled  up  on  the  wet  bank  in  the 
long  grass  is  your  boat,  with  the  frayed 
end  of  the  painter  tied  around  some  wil 
low  that  offers  a  helping  root.  Within 
a  stone's  throw,  under  a  great  branch 
ing  of  gnarled  trees,  is  a  nook  where  the 
curious  sun,  peeping  at  you  through  the 
interlaced  leaves,  will  stencil  Japanese 
shadows  on  your  white  umbrella.  Then 
the  trap  is  unstrapped,  the  stool  opened, 
the  easel  put  up,  and  you  set  your  pa- 

12 


lette.     The  critical  eye  with  which  you  A  Day  ^ 
look  over  your  brush-case  and  the  care  ' 

with  which  you  try  each  feather  point 
upon  your  thumb-nail  are  but  an  index 
of  your  enjoyment. 

Now  you  are  ready.  You  loosen  your 
cravat,  hang  your  coat  to  some  rustic 
peg  in  the  creviced  bark  of  the  tree  be 
hind  you,  seize  a  bit  of  charcoal  from 
your  bag,  sweep  your  eye  around,  and 
dash  in  a  few  guiding  strokes.  Above 
is  a  turquoise  sky  filled  with  soft  white 
clouds  ;  behind  you  the  great  trunks  of 
the  many-branched  willows  ;  and  away 
off,  under  the  hot  sun,  the  yellow-green 
of  the  wasted  pasture,  dotted  with 
patches  of  rock  and  weeds,  and  hemmed 
in  by  the  low  hills  that  slope  to  the 
curving  stream. 

It  is  high  noon.  There  is  a  stillness 
in  the  air  that  impresses  you,  broken 
only  by  the  low  murmur  of  the  brook 
behind  and  the  ceaseless  song  of  the 
grasshopper  among  the  weeds  in  front. 
A  tired  bumblebee  hums  past,  rolls 
lazily  over  a  clover  blossom  at  your 
feet,  and  has  his  midday  luncheon.  Un 
der  the  maples  near  the  river's  bend 
stands  a  group  of  horses,  their  heads 
touching.  In  the  brook  below  are  the 
patient  cattle,  with  patches  of  sunlight 
gilding  and  bronzing  their  backs  and 
13 


A  Day  a/   sides.     Every  now  and  then  a  breath  of 

guerre  s  COQJ  ^  starts  out  from  some  shaded 

retreat,  plays  around  your  forehead,  and 

passes  on.     All  nature  rests.     It  is  her 

noontime. 

But  you  work  on  :  an  enthusiasm  has 
taken  possession  of  you  ;  the  paints  mix 
too  slowly  ;  you  use  your  thumb,  smear 
ing  and  blending  with  a  bit  of  rag  — 
anything  for  the  effect.  One  moment 
you  are  glued  to  your  seat,  your  eye 
riveted  on  your  canvas,  the  next,  you 
are  up  and  backing  away,  taking  it  in 
as  a  whole,  then  pouncing  down  upon  it 
quickly,  belaboring  it  with  your  brush. 
Soon  the  trees  take  shape  ;  the  sky 
forms  become  definite  ;  the  meadow  lies 
flat  and  loses  itself  in  the  fringe  of  wil 
lows. 

When  all  of  this  begins  to  grow  upon 
your  once  blank  canvas,  and  some  lucky 
pat  matches  the  exact  tone  of  blue-gray 
haze  or  shimmer  of  leaf,  or  some  ac 
cidental  blending  of  color  delights  you 
with  its  truth,  a  tingling  goes  down  your 
backbone,  and  a  rush  surges  through 
your  veins  that  stirs  you  as  nothing  else 
in  your  whole  life  will  ever  do.  The  re 
action  comes  the  next  day  when,  in  the 
cold  light  of  your  studio,  you  see  how 
far  short  you  have  come  and  how  crude 
and  false  is  your  best  touch  compared 


with  the  glory  of  the  landscape  in  your  A  Day  at 
mind  and  heart.     But  the  thrill  that  it 
gave  you  will  linger  forever. 

But  I  hear  a  voice  behind  me  calling 
out :  — 

"  Monsieur,  mamma  says  that  dinner 
will  be  ready  in  half  an  hour.  Please 
do  not  be  late." 

It  is  Lucette.  She  and  Francois  have 
come  down  in  the  other  boat  —  the  one 
with  the  little  seat.  They  have  moved 
so  noiselessly  that  I  have  not  even 
heard  them.  The  sketch  is  nearly  fin 
ished  ;  and  so,  remembering  the  good 
madame,  and  the  Roquefort,  and  the 
olives,  and  the  many  times  I  have  kept 
her  waiting,  I  wash  my  brushes  at  once, 
throw  my  traps  into  the  boat,  and  pull 
back  through  the  winding  turn,  Frangois 
taking  the  mill-race,  and  in  the  swiftest 
part  springing  to  the  bank  and  towing 
Lucette,  who  sits  in  the  stern,  her  white 
skirts  tucked  around  her  dainty  feet. 

"  Sacrt '!  He  is  here.  Cest  merveil- 
leux  !  Why  did  you  come  ?  " 

"  Because  you  sent  for  me,  madame, 
and  I  am  hungry." 

"  Mon  Dieu  !  He  is  hungry,  and  no 
chicken ! " 

It  is  true.  The  chicken  was  served 
that  morning  to  another  tramp  for  break 
fast,  and  madame  had  forgotten  all  about 


A  Day  <*/  ft,  and  had  ransacked  the  settlement  for 
5  its  mate.  She  was  too  honest  a  cook  to 
chase  another  into  the  frying-pan. 

But  there  was  a  filet  with  mushrooms, 
and  a  most  surprising  salad  of  chicory 
fresh  from  the  garden,  and  the  pease 
were  certain,  and  the  Roquefort  and  the 
olives  beyond  question.  All  this  she 
tells  me  as  I  walk  past  the  table  cov 
ered  with  a  snow-white  cloth  and  spread 
under  the  grape-vines  overlooking  the 
stream,  with  the  trees  standing  against 
the  sky,  their  long  shadows  wrinkling 
down  into  the  water. 

I  enter  the  summer  kitchen  built  out 
into  the  garden,  which  also  covers  the 
old  well,  let  down  the  bucket,  and  then, 
taking  the  clean  crash  towel  from  its 
hook,  place  the  basin  on  the  bench  in 
the  sunlight,  and  plunge  my  head  into 
the  cool  water.  Madame  regards  me 
curiously,  her  arms  akimbo,  re-hangs  the 
towel,  and  asks  :  — 

"  Well,  what  about  the  wine  ?  The 
same  ? " 

"Yes  ;  but  I  will  get  it  myself." 

The  cellar  is  underneath  the  larger 
house.  Outside  is  an  old-fashioned,  slop 
ing  double  door.  These  doors  are  al 
ways  open,  and  a  cool  smell  of  damp 
straw  flavored  with  vinegar  from  a  leaky 
keg  greets  you  as  you  descend  into  its 

16 


recesses.  On  the  hard  earthen  floor  rest  A  Day  ^ 
eight  or  ten  great  casks.  The  walls  are  La&"rris 
lined  with  bottles  large  and  small,  load 
ed  on  shelves  to  which  little  white  cards 
are  tacked  giving  the  vintage  and  brand. 
In  one  corner,  under  the  small  window, 
you  will  find  dozens  of  boxes  of  French 
delicacies  —  truffles,  pease,  mushrooms, 
pate"  de  foie  gras,  mustard,  and  the  like, 
and  behind  them  rows  of  olive  oil  and 
olives.  I  carefully  draw  out  a  bottle 
from  the  row  on  the  last  shelf  nearest 
the  corner,  mount  the  steps,  and  place 
it  on  the  table.  Madame  examines  the 
cork,  and  puts  down  the  bottle,  remark 
ing  sententiously :  — 

"  Chateau  Lamonte,  '62 !  Monsieur 
has  told  you." 

There  may  be  ways  of  dining  more 
delicious  than  out  in  the  open  air  under 
the  vines  in  the  cool  of  the  afternoon, 
with  Lucette,  in  her  whitest  of  aprons, 
flitting  about,  and  madame  garnishing 
the  dishes  each  in  turn,  and  there  may 
be  better  bottles  of  honest  red  wine  to 
be  found  up  and  down  this  world  of  care 
than  "  Chateau  Lamonte,  '62,"  but  I 
have  not  yet  discovered  them. 

Lucette  serves  the  coffee  in  a  little 
cup,  and  leaves  the  Roquefort  and  the 
cigarettes  on  the  table  just  as  the  sun 
is  sinking  behind  the  hill  skirting  the 
17 


A  Day  a/  railroad.  While  I  am  blowing  rings 
Laguerres  through  the  grape  leaves  over  my  head 
a  quick  noise  is  heard  across  the  stream. 
Lucette  runs  past  me  through  the  gar 
den,  picking  up  her  oars  as  she  goes. 

"  Oui,  mon  ph'e.     I  am  coming." 

It  is  monsieur  from  his  day's  work  in 
the  city. 

"  Who  is  here  ?  "  I  hear  him  say  as 
he  mounts  the  terrace  steps.  "  Oh,  the 
painter  —  good  !  " 

"  Ah,  mon  ami.  So  you  must  see  the 
willows  once  more.  Have  you  not  tired 
of  them  yet  ? "  Then,  seating  himself, 
"  I  hope  madame  has  taken  good  care  of 
you.  What,  the  '62  ?  Ah,  I  remember 
I  told  you." 

When  it  is  quite  dark  he  joins  me  un 
der  the  leaves,  bringing  a  second  bottle 
a  little  better  corked  he  thinks,  and  the 
talk  drifts  into  his  early  life. 

"  What  year  was  that,  monsieur  ? " 
I  asked. 

"  In  1849.  I  was  a  young  fellow  just 
grown.  I  had  learned  my  trade  in 
Rheims,  and  I  had  come  down  to  Paris 
to  make  my  bread.  Two  years  later 
came  the  little  affair  of  December  2. 
That  '  nobody,'  Louis,  had  dissolved  the 
National  Assembly  and  the  Council  of 
State,  and  had  issued  his  address  to  the 
army.  Paris  was  in  a  ferment.  By  the 

18 


help  of  his  soldiers  and  police  he  had  A  Day */ 
silenced  every  voice  in  Paris  except  his  La?u*rre's 
own.  He  had  suppressed  all  the  jour 
nals,  and  locked  up  everybody  who  had 
opposed  him.  Victor  Hugo  was  in  exile, 
Louis  Blanc  in  London,  Changarnier 
and  Cavaignac  in  prison.  At  the  mo 
ment  I  was  working  in  a  little  shop  near 
the  Porte  St.  Martin  decorating  lacquer- 
work.  We  workmen  all  belonged  to  a 
secret  society  which  met  nightly  in  a 
back  room  over  a  wine-shop  near  the 
Rue  Royale.  We  had  but  one  thought 
—  how  to  upset  the  little  devil  at  the 
£lyse"e.  Among  my  comrades  was  a  big 
fellow  from  my  own  city,  one  Cambier. 
He  was  the  leader.  On  the  ground 
floor  of  the  shop  was  built  a  huge  oven 
where  the  lacquer  was  baked.  At  night 
this  was  made  hot  with  charcoal  and 
allowed  to  cool  off  in  the  morning  ready 
for  the  finished  work  of  the  previous  day. 
It  was  Cambier's  duty  to  attend  to  this 
oven. 

"  One  night  just  after  all  but  he  and 
two  others  had  left  the  shop  a  strange 
man  was  discovered  in  a  closet  where  the 
men  kept  their  working  clothes.  He 
was  seized,  brought  to  the  light,  and  in 
stantly  recognized  as  a  member  of  the 
secret  police. 

"  At  daylight  the  next  morning  I  was 

19 


A  Day  «/  aroused  f rom  my  bed,  and,  looking  up, 
saw  chapQ^  an  inspector  of  police,  stand 
ing  over  me.  He  had  known  me  from  a 
boy,  and  was  a  friend  of  my  father's. 

" '  Frangois,  there  is  trouble  at  the 
shop.  A  police  agent  has  been  mur 
dered.  His  body  was  found  in  the  oven. 
Cambier  is  under  arrest.  I  know  what 
}tau  have  been  doing,  but  I  also  know 
that  in  this  you  have  had  no  hand. 
Here  are  one  hundred  francs.  Leave 
Paris  in  an  hour.' 

"  I  put  the  money  in  my  pocket,  tied 
my  clothes  in  a  bundle,  and  that  night 
was  on  my  way  to  Havre,  and  the  next 
week  set  sail  for  here." 

"And  what  became  of  Cambier?"  I 
asked. 

"  I  have  never  heard  from  that  day  to 
this,  so  I  think  they  must  have  snuffed 
him  out." 

Then  he  drifted  into  his  early  life 
here  —  the  weary  tramping  of  the  streets 
day  after  day,  the  half  -  starving  result, 
the  language  and  people  unknown. 
Suddenly,  somewhere  in  the  lower  part 
of  the  city,  he  espied  a  card  tacked  out 
side  of  a  window  bearing  this  inscription, 
"Decorator  wanted."  A  man  inside 
was  painting  one  of  the  old-fashioned 
iron  tea-trays  common  in  those  days. 
Monsieur  took  off  his  hat,  pointed  to  the 

20 


card,  then  to  himself,  seized  the  brush,  A  Day  a/ 
and  before  the  man  could  protest  had 
covered  the  bottom  with  morning-glories 
so  pink  and  fresh  that  his  troubles  ended 
on  the  spot.  The  first  week  he  earned 
six  dollars  ;  but  then  this  was  to  be  paid 
at  the  end  of  it.  For  these  six  days  he 
subsisted  on  one  meal  a  day.  This  he  ate 
at  a  restaurant  where  at  night  he  washed 
dishes  and  blacked  the  head  waiter's 
boots.  When  Saturday  came,  and  the 
money  was  counted  out  in  his  hand,  he 
thrust  it  into  his  pocket,  left  the  shop, 
and  sat  down  on  a  doorstep  outside  to 
think. 

"  And,  mon  ami,  what  did  I  do  first  ? " 

"  Got  something  to  eat  ? " 

"  Never.  I  paid  for  a  bath,  had  my 
hair  cut  and  my  face  shaved,  bought  a 
shirt  and  collar,  and  then  went  back  to 
the  restaurant  where  I  had  washed  dishes 
the  night  before,  and  the  head  waiter 
served  me.  After  that  it  was  easy ;  the 
next  week  it  was  ten  dollars ;  then  in  a 
few  years  I  had  a  place  of  my  own  ;  then 
came  madame  and  Lucette  —  and  here 


we  are." 


The  twilight  had  faded  into  a  velvet 
blue,  sprinkled  with  stars.  The  lantern 
which  madame  had  hung  against  the 
arbor  shed  a  yellow  light,  throwing  into 
clear  relief  the  sharply  cut  features  of 

21 


A  Day  a/  monsieur.  Up  and  down  the  silent 
Lagturrft  stream  drifted  here  and  there  a  phan 
tom  boat,  the  gleam  of  its  light  following 
like  a  firefly.  From  some  came  no  sound 
but  the  muffled  plash  of  the  oars.  From 
others  floated  stray  bits  of  song  and 
laughter.  Far  up  the  stream  I  heard 
the  distant  whistle  of  the  down  train. 

"  It  is  mine,  monsieur.  Will  you  cross 
with  me,  and  bring  back  the  boat  ? " 

Monsieur  unhooked  the  lantern,  and 
I  followed  through  the  garden  and  down 
the  terrace  steps. 

At  the  water's  edge  was  a  bench  hold 
ing  two  figures. 

Monsieur  turned  his  lantern,  and  the 
light  fell  upon  the  face  of  young  Fran- 
gois. 

When  the  bow  grated  on  the  opposite 
bank  I  shook  his  hand,  and  said,  in  part 
ing,  pointing  to  the  lovers,  — 

"  The  same  old  story,  monsieur  ? " 

"  Yes ;  and  always  new.  You  must 
come  to  the  church." 


II.  ESPERO  GORGONI,  GON 
DOLIER 

|OOR  old  Ingenio  —  my 
gondolier  of  five  years  be 
fore —  dear  old  Ingenio, 
with  his  white  hair  and 
gentle  voice  ;  Ingenio  with 
the  little,  crippled  daugh 
ter  and  the  sad-faced  wife,  who  lived 
near  the  church  behind  the  Rialto,  had 
made  his  last  crossing.  At  least  the 
sacristan  shook  his  head  and  pointed  up 
ward  when  I  sought  tidings  of  him ;  and 
the  old,  familiar  door  with  the  queer 
gratings  was  locked,  and  the  windows 
cobwebbed  and  dust-begrimed. 

None  of  the  gondoliers  at  the  Rialto 
landing  knew,  nor  did  any  of  the  old 
men  at  the  water-steps  —  the  men  with 
the  hooked  staffs  who  steady  your  boat 
while  you  alight.  Five  years  was  so 
very  long  ago,  they  said,  and  then  there 
had  been  the  plague. 

So  I  looked  up  wistfully  at  the  win 
dows  of  the  old  palace  where  I  had 
called  to  him  so  often  —  I  can  see  him 
now,  with  little  Giulie"tta  in  his  arms, 
peering  at  me  through  the  gay,  climb- 
23 


jng  flowers  which  she  watered  so  care- 
(ZS&r  fully— looked  long  and  wistfully,  as  if 
he  must  surely  answer  back,  "  Si,  signore, 
immediatamente"  and  turned  sadly  away. 
But  then  there  was  the  same  old  gon 
dola-landing,  blue  poles,  bridge,  and  all, 
with  its  flock  of  gondolas  hovering 
around,  and  a  dozen  lusty  fellows  ready 
to  spring  to  their  oars  and  serve  me 
night  and  day  for  a  pittance  that  else 
where  a  man  would  starve  on.  My  lucky 
star  once  sent  me  Ingenio,  who  floating 
past  caught  my  signal ;  why  not  another? 
This  is  why  I  am  on  the  quay  near 
the  Rialto  this  lovely  morning,  in  Ven 
ice,  overlooking  the  gondolas  curving  in 
and  out,  and  watching  the  faces  of  the 
gondoliers  as  with  uplifted  hands,  like  a 
row  of  whips,  they  call  out  their  respec 
tive  numbers  and  qualifications. 

In  my  experience  there  is  nothing 
like  a  gondola  to  paint  from,  especially 
in  the  summer  —  and  it  is  the  summer 
time.  Then  all  these  Venetian  cabs  are 
gay  in  their  sunshiny  attire,  and  have 
laid  aside  their  dark,  hooded  cloaks, 
their  rainy  -  day  mackintoshes  —  their 
felsi  —  and  have  pulled  over  their  shoul 
ders  a  frail  awning  of  creamy  white, 
with  snowy  draperies  at  sides  and  back, 
under  which  you  paint  in  state  or  lounge 

24 


luxuriously,    drinking    in    the    beauty 

about  you. .  „ 

I  have  in  my  wanderings  tried  all 
sorts  of  moving  studios  :  tartanas  in 
Spain,  volantes  in  Cuba,  broad-sailed  lug 
gers  in  Holland,  mules  in  Mexico,  and 
cabs  everywhere.  One  I  remember  with 
delight  —  an  old  night-hawk  in  Amster 
dam  —  that  offered  me  not  only  its  front 
seat  for  my  easel,  its  arm-rest  for  my 
water-bottle,  and  a  pocket  in  the  door 
flap  for  brushes  (I  am  likely  to  expect 
all  these  conveniences  in  even  the  most 
disreputable  of  cabs),  but  insisted  on 
giving  me  the  additional  luxury  of  a 
knot-hole  in  its  floor  for  waste  water. 

But  with  all  this  a  cab  is  not  a  gon 
dola. 

In  a  gondola  you  are  never  shaken  by 
the  tired  beast  resting  his  other  leg,  nor 
by  the  small  boy  who  looks  in  at  the 
window,  nor  by  the  cabby,  who  falls 
asleep  on  the  box  and  awakes  periodi 
cally  with  a  start  that  repeats  a  shiver 
through  your  brush  hand,  and  a  corre 
sponding  wave-line  across  your  sky. 

In  place  of  this  there  is  only  a  cosy 
curtain-closed  nest  —  a  little  boudoir 
with  down  cushions  and  silk  fringes  and 
soft  morocco  coverings ;  kept  afloat  by 
a  long,  lithe,  swan -like,  moving  boat, 
black  as  an  Inquisitor's  gown  save  for 
25 


Espero  the  dainty  awning.  A  something  bear- 
*nS  itself  proudly  with  head  high  in  air, 
—  alive  or  still,  alert  or  restful,  and 
obedient  to  your  lightest  touch,  —  half 
sea-gull  reveling  in  the  sunlight,  half 
dolphin  cutting  the  dark  water. 

If  you  are  hurried,  and  the  plash  of 
the  oar  comes  quick  and  strong,  in  an 
instant  your  gondola  quivers  with  the 
excitement  of  the  chase.  You  feel  the 
thrill  through  its  entire  length  as  it 
strains  every  nerve;  the  touch  of  the 
oar,  like  the  touch  of  the  spur,  urging 
it  to  its  best.  If  you  would  rest,  and 
so  slip  into  some  dark  waterway  under 
the  shadow  of  overhanging  balcony  or 
mouldy  palace  wall,  your  water-swallow 
becomes  a  very  lasagnone,  and  will  go 
sound  asleep,  and  for  hours,  or  loll  la 
zily,  the  little  waves  lapping  about  its 
bow. 

In  Venice  my  gondola  is  always  my 
home,  and  my  gondolier  always  my  best 
friend ;  and  so  when  my  search  for  In- 
genio  ended  only  in  a  cobwebbed  door 
and  an  abandoned  balcony,  and  that 
mournful  shake  of  the  sacristan's  head, 
and  I  stood  scanning  anxiously  the  up 
turned  faces  below  me,  it  was  some  min 
utes  before  I  selected  his  successor  and 
returned  Espero's  signal. 

I  cannot  say  why  I  singled  him  out 

26 


except,  perhaps,  that  he  did  not  press 
forward  with  the  rest,  rushing  his  bow 
ahead ;  but  rather  held  back,  giving  his 
place  to  a  gray-headed  old  gondolier, 
who  in  his  haste  had  muffed  his  oar 
awkwardly,  at  which  the  others  laughed. 

Perhaps,  too,  it  might  have  been  his 
frank,  handsome,  young  face,  with  its 
merry,  black  eyes ;  or  the  inviting  look 
of  the  cushions  beneath  the  white  awn 
ing,  with  the  bit  of  a  rug  on  the  floor  ; 
or  the  picturesque  effect  of  the  whole  ; 
or  all  of  them  together,  that  caught  my 
eye.  Or  it  might  have  been  the  per 
fect  welding  together  of  man  and  boat. 
For,  as  he  stood  erect  in  the  sunlight, 
twisting  the  gondola  with  his  oar,  his 
loose  shirt,  with  throat  and  chest  bare  in 
highest  light  against  the  dark  water,  his 
head  bound  with  a  red  kerchief,  his  well- 
knit,  graceful  figure  swaying  in  the 
movement  of  the  whole,  —  blending  with 
and  yet  controlling  it,  —  both  man  and 
boat  seemed  but  parts  of  one  organism, 
a  sort  of  marine  Centaur,  as  free  and 
fearless  as  that  wonderful  myth  of  the 
olden  time.  Whatever  it  was,  my  lucky 
star  peeped  out  at  the  opportune  mo 
ment,  and  the  next  instant  my  sketch- 
traps  were  tumbled  in. 

"To  the  Salute!" 

The  gondolier  threw  himself  on  his 
27 


Espero       Oar,  the  sensitive  craft  quivered  at  the 
Gondolier   touch,  and  we  glided  out  upon  the  broad 
waters  of  the  Grand  Canal. 

Nowhere  else  in  the  wide  world  is 
there  such  a  sight.  A  double  row  of 
creamy  white  palaces  tiled  in  red  and 
topped  with  quaint  chimneys.  Over 
hanging  balconies  of  marble,  fringed  with 
flowers,  with  gay  awnings  above  and 
streaming  shadows  below.  Two  lines  of 
narrow  quays  crowded  with  people  flash 
ing  bright  bits  of  color  in  the  blazing 
sun.  Swarms  of  gondolas,  barcos,  and 
lesser  water-spiders  darting  in  and  out. 
Lazy  red  -  sailed  luggers,  melon  -  loaded, 
with  crinkled  green  shadows  crawling  be 
neath  their  bows ;  while  at  the  far  end 
over  the  glistening  highway,  beaded  with 
people,  curves  the  beautiful  bridge  —  an 
ivory  arch  against  a  turquoise  sky. 

Espero  ran  the  gauntlet  of  the  skim 
ming  boats,  dodging  the  little  steamers 
puffing  away  all  out  of  breath  with  their 
run  from  the  Lido,  shot  his  boat  into  a 
narrow  canal,  and  out  again  upon  the 
broad  water,  until  the  edge  of  her  steel 
blade  touched  the  water-stairs  of  the  Sa 
lute. 

This  beautiful  church  is  always  my 
rendezvous.  It  is  half-way  to  every 
thing  :  to  the  Public  Garden ;  across 
the  Giudecca ;  away  over  to  the  Lagoon 

28 


where  the  fishermen  live  ;  to  the  Rialto 
and  beyond. 

In  the  freshness  of  the  morning,  when 
its  lovely  dome  throws  a  cool  shadow 
across  its  piazza,  there  is  no  better  place 
for  a  painter  to  make  up  his  mind  as  to 
where  he  would  work.  Mine  required 
but  a  few  minutes ;  I  would  paint  near 
the  Fondimenta  della  Pallada ;  a  narrow, 
short  canal  where  the  fishermen  moor 
their  boats. 

"  What  is  your  name,  gondolier  ? " 

"  Espero  Gorgoni." 

The  voice  was  sweet  and  musical,  and 
the  answer  was  given  with  a  turn  of  the 
head  as  graceful  as  it  was  free. 

"  Do  you  know  the  Pallada  ? " 

"  Perfectly." 

"  Stop,  then,  where  the  crab  baskets 
are  moored  to  the  poles." 

A  turn  of  the  wrist,  a  long,  bending 
sweep  of  the  oar  across  the  Giudecca, 
and  we  enter  a  waterway  leading  to  the 
Lagoon.  Here  live  the  fishermen,  in 
great,  rambling  houses  three  and  four 
stories  high,  —  warehouses  probably  in 
the  old  days,  —  running  sheer  into  the 
water.  Outside  of  the  lower  windows 
lie  their  boats,  with  gay-colored  sails,  and 
next  to  these  stand  a  row  of  poles  anchor 
ing  the  huge  wicker  crab  and  fish  baskets 
filled  with  their  early  morning  catch. 
29 


Espero  ran  the  gondola  behind  a  pro- 

tectmg  sa^>  an^  m  ^ve  HlinutCS  I  was  at 

work. 

The  experience  was  not  new  to  him. 
I  saw  that  from  the  way  he  opened  the 
awning  on  the  proper  side,  unstrapped 
my  easel,  and  spread  out  the  contents  of 
my  trap  on  the  cushions,  which  he  re 
versed  to  protect  from  waste  water  ;  and 
from  the  way  he  stepped  ashore,  so  that 
my  gondola  should  lie  perfectly  still, 
joining  later  a  group  of  children  who 
were  watching  me  from  the  doorway 
above.  (Half  an  hour  after  they  were 
laughing  at  his  stories,  the  two  young 
est  in  his  lap.)  A  considerate,  good-na 
tured  fellow,  I  thought,  —  this  gondolier 
of  mine,  —  and  fond  of  children ;  and  I 
kept  at  work. 

When  the  fisherman  awoke  and  came 
down  to  make  ready  his  boat  for  the 
morning,  and  I  began  the  customary 
protest  about  the  lowering  of  the  sail, 
thus  spoiling  my  sketch,  Espero  sprang 
up,  locked  his  arm  through  that  of  the 
intruder,  and  led  him  gently  back  into 
the  house,  calling  to  me,  five  minutes 
thereafter,  from  across  the  canal,  to  keep 
at  work  and  not  to  hurry,  as  the  fisher 
man  and  he  would  have  a  mouthful  of 
wine  together.  And  a  man  of  tact, 
too !  Really,  if  my  gondolier  develops 

30 


like  this,  I  shall  not  miss  Ingenio  so 
much. 

The  next  day  we  were  across  the  La 
goon,  and  the  day  following  up  the  Giu- 
decca,  by  the  storehouses  where  the 
lighters  unload,  and  before  the  week  was 
out  I  had  fallen  into  my  old  habits  and 
was  sharing  my  breakfast  and  my  ciga 
rette-case  with  my  gondolier,  who,  day  by 
day,  won  his  way  by  some  new  trait  of 
usefulness  or  some  new  charm  of  man 
ner. 

Oh,  these  breakfasts  in  the  gondola 
in  the  early  morning ;  the  soft,  fresh  air 
of  the  sea  in  your  face,  the  cool  plash  of 
the  water  in  your  ears  !  On  the  floor  of 
the  boat,  smoking  hot,  rests  the  little 
copper  coffee-pot ;  above  in  the  wooden 
side  -  pockets,  your  store  of  fruit  and 
rolls.  With  what  a  waste  and  reckless 
ness  is  the  melon  split  and  quartered, 
and  the  half -eaten  crescents  thrown  over 
board  !  What  savory  fish  !  What  deli 
cious  bread  !  What  luscious  figs  !  And 
yet  Espero  had  gathered  them  all  up  at 
a  caffe,  a  fruit-stand,  and  a  baker's ;  and 
a  bit  of  silver  no  larger  than  my  thumb 
nail  had  paid  for  it  all. 

When  the  wind  freshens  and  the  boats 
from  Chioggia  begin  spreading  their 
sails,  Espero  turns  his  prow  toward  the 


Public  Garden,  —  their  mooring-ground, 

—  and    we    f°llow    them    out     over    thc 

broad  water  until  my  sketch-book  is  rilled 
with  their  varying  forms  and  colors. 
On  our  way  back  we  board  the  wood 
boats,  drifting  in  with  the  tide,  or  land 
under  the  old  garden -walls,  which  Es 
pero  scales,  regaining  the  gondola  loaded 
with  flowers,  which  he  festoons  over  the 
awning,  trailing  the  blossoming  vines  in 
the  water  behind.  Or  we  circle  about 
the  Salute,  composing  it  now  on  the 
right,  with  some  lighter  boats  in  the 
distance ;  now  on  the  left,  with  the  Do- 
gana  and  the  stretch  of  palaces  beyond. 
Or  we  haunt  the  churches,  listening  to 
the  music,  or  follow  with  our  eyes  the 
slender,  graceful  Venetians  who  come 
and  go. 

In  all  these  rambles  there  was  one 
little,  crooked  canal  near  the  Salute 
that,  whatever  our  course,  Espero  al 
ways  dodged  into.  Long  way  around  or 
short  way  over,  it  was  always  the  same. 
Somehow  Espero  must  get  into  this 
waterway  to  get  out  somewhere  else. 
At  last  I  caught  him.  She  wore  a  yel 
low  silk  handkerchief  tied  under  her 
pretty  chin  and  was  waving  her  hand 
from  a  balcony  filled  with  oleanders  high 
up  on  the  wall  of  a  crumbling  old  pal 
ace.  These  were  our  days  ! 

32 


Then  came  the  twilights,  with  palace,  Espero 
tower,  and  dome  purple  in  the  fading  5*555$ 

1.1,1  i      11  i  1  i    .LI  Gondolier 

light,  the  canal  all  molten  gold,  the  gon 
dolas,  with  lamps  alight,  gliding  like 
fireflies. 

On  one  of  these  purple-laden  twilights 
we  had  floated  over  to  San  Giorgio, 
moored  the  gondola  to  a  great  iron  ring 
in  the  water-soaked  steps  that  might 
once  have  held  a  slave-laden  galley,  and 
had  sat  down  to  watch  the  darkness 
as  it  slowly  settled  over  the  dreaming 
city.  Away  off  to  the  right  stood  the 
Campanile,  its  cone-shaped  top  pink  and 
gold,  while  behind,  against  the  deepen 
ing  blue,  rose  its  twin  tower. 

The  scene  awoke  all  the  old  memories, 
and  I  began  talking  to  Espero,  who  was 
stretched  out  on  the  marble  steps  below 
me,  of  the  olden  times  when  this  same 
harbor  was  full  of  ships  of  every  clime, 
with  sails  of  gold  and  cargoes  of  spice, 
and  of  the  great  regattas,  and  the  two- 
decked  war  barges,  with  slaves  double- 
banked  rowing  beneath ;  and  from  this 
to  the  wonderful  Bucentaur,  the  Doge's 
barge,  encrusted  with  gold,  rowed  by  the 
members  of  the  Arsenalotti  —  a  sort  of 
guild  or  corporation  formed  of  the  work 
men  at  the  Arsenal.  How,  every  year, 
occurred  the  ceremony  of  the  Espousal 
of  the  Adriatic,  and  how,  when  the  Bu- 
33 


Espero       centaur  returned,  there  was  a  grand  ban- 

GG^ndoiier   quet»  at  which  the  Arsenalotti  dined  at 

the  public  expense,  with  the  privilege  of 

carrying  off  everything  on  the  table  — 

even  the  linen,  vessels,  and  glass. 

Espero's  attitude  and  face,  as  he  lis 
tened,  led  me  on.  He  had  an  odd  way 
of  lifting  his  eyebrows  quickly  when  I 
told  him  something  that  interested  him, 
—  a  questioning,  yet  deferential  expres 
sion,  which  I  generally  accepted  as  a 
tribute  to  my  superior  intelligence. 
He  never  formulated  it  in  words.  It 
was  only  one  of  the  many  flashes  that 
swept  over  his  face,  but  it  was  always  a 
grateful  encouragement. 

And  so,  with  the  glamour  of  the  scene 
about  me,  and  with  Espero's  eyes  fas 
tened  on  mine,  his  well-shaped  head  clear 
cut  against  the  fading  sky,  I  rambled 
on,  telling  him  of  those  things  I  thought 
would  please  him  the  most.  Of  how 
these  Arsenalotti  became  gondoliers, 
joining  the  Castellani,  —  the  gondoliers 
at  that  time  being  divided  into  two  par 
ties,  the  Castellani,  who  wore  red  hoods, 
and  the  Nicolletti,  who  wore  black  hoods. 
Of  how  these  Castellani  were  aristocrats 
and  had  portioned  out  to  them  the  east 
ern  part  of  the  city  where  the  Doge 
lived,  his  residence  being  in  the  Piazza 
of  San  Marco  ;  while  the  Nicolletti  were 

34 


only  publicans.    That,  besides  attending  Espero 
to  the  Doge  in  public,  many  of  these 
Castellani  had   served   him   in  private, 
thus  being  of  great  service  to  the  state. 

Espero  listened  to  every  word,  raising 
his  head  and  looking  at  me  curiously 
when  I  mentioned  the  Castellani,  and 
laughing  outright  at  my  description  of 
the  banquet  tables  in  the  hands  of  the 
Arsenalotti.  Nothing  else  dropped  from 
his  lips  except  the  grim  remark  that  if 
he  had  lived  in  those  days  he  would, 
perhaps,  have  owned  his  own  gondola, 
and  not  have  had  to  use  his  grand 
father's,  who  was  now  too  old  to  row. 
I  remembered  afterward  that  a  certain 
thoughtful  expression  overspread  his 
face,  as  if  my  talk  had  awakened  some 
memory  of  his  own. 

A  passing  music  boat  cut  short  my 
dissertation,  and  in  a  moment  more  we 
were  following  in  its  wake,  threading 
our  way  in  and  out  of  the  tangle  of  gon 
dolas  massed  about  it.  Then  a  twist  of 
the  oar,  and  Espero  glided  alongside 
the  lantern-hung  barge  and  leaned  over 
to  speak  to  the  leader.  The  musicians 
were  going  to  the  Piazza,  would  I  care 
to  hear  them  sing  under  the  Bridge  of 
Sighs  ? 

In  five  minutes  we  had  picked  our 
way  through  the  labyrinth  of  surround- 

35 


Jng  gondolas,  and  in  five  more  had  en- 
r  tere^  tne  close,  narrow  canal,  where  the 
beautiful  bridge,  buttressed  by  two  great 
masses  of  gloom,  —  the  palace  and  the 
prison,  —  overhung  the  sluggish,  sullen 
water. 

There  is  never  a  lantern  now  along 
this  weird  and  grewsome  waterway. 
One  only  sees  the  twinkling  lamps  of 
the  gondolas,  like  will-o'-the-wisps,  drift 
past,  —  the  boats  themselves  lost  in  the 
blackness  of  the  shadows,  —  the  glim 
mer  of  the  pale  light  of  some  slow-mov 
ing  barge,  or  the  reflection  of  the  stars 
above.  All  else  is  dark  and  ghostly. 

The  music  boat  drifted  sideways,  and 
the  bass  viol,  who  was  standing,  twisted 
a  light  cord  through  an  iron  ring  in 
the  slimy,  ooze-colored  palace.  Espero 
drifted  against  the  opposite  wall  —  the 
prison. 

"  What  shall  they  sing,  signor  ? " 

"As  you  please,  Espero." 

I  have  heard  the  Miserere  chanted  at 
dead  of  night  in  the  streets  of  an  old 
Italian  town,  the  flare  of  the  torches 
lighting  the  upturned  face  of  the  ghastly 
dead ;  my  eyes  have  filled  when,  with 
knee  to  marble  floor,  I  have  listened 
to  the  pathos  of  its  harmonies  sighing 
through  the  many-pillared  mosque  of 
Cordova ;  I  have  drunk  in  its  cadences 

36 


in  curtained  alcoves  with  the  breath  of  Espero 
waving  fans  and  flash  of  gems  about 
me ;  but  never  has  its  grandeur  and 
majesty  so  stirred  my  imagination  and 
entranced  my  soul  as  on  this  night  in 
Venice,  under  the  deep  blue  of  the  soft 
Italian  sky,  the  frowning,  blood-stained 
palace  above,  the  treacherous  silent  wa 
ter  beneath. 

I  could  stretch  out  my  hand  and  touch 
the  very  stones  that  had  coffined  the  liv 
ing  dead.  I  could  look  down  into  the 
same  depths  along  the  edge  of  the  water- 
soaked  marble  where  had  lain  the  head 
less  body,  with  sack  and  cord,  awaiting 
the  sure  current  of  the  changing  tide ; 
and  from  my  cushions  in  the  listening 
gondola  I  could  see,  high  up  against  the 
blue  in  the  starlight,  the  same  narrow 
window  in  the  fatal  arch,  through  which 
the  hopeless  had  caught  a  last  glimpse 
of  light  and  life. 

When  the  last  low  strains  had  died 
away,  Espero  raised  himself  erect, 
walked  slowly  the  length  of  the  gon 
dola,  and,  bending  down,  said  in  a  voice 
tremulous  with  emotion,  "  Signor,  did 
you  hear  the  tramp  of  the  poor  fellows 
over  the  bridge,  and  the  moans  of  the 
men  dying  under  the  wall  ?  Holy  God ! 
Was  it  not  terrible  ? " 

At  that  instant  the  barge  floated  past. 
37 


Espero       \  looked  at  him   in  wonder — Espero's 
eyes  were  full  of  tears! 


This  man  began  to  interest  me  intense 
ly.  Only  an  every -day,  plain,  Venetian 
gondolier,  in  a  blue  shirt,  and  patched 
at  that,  with  hardly  a  franc  he  could 
call  his  own,  and  yet  there  was  some 
thing  about  him  that  made  his  presence 
a  delight.  It  was  not  the  graceful  swing 
of  his  beautiful  body,  nor  his  musical 
laugh,  nor  his  honest  kindness  to  every 
human  being.  It  was  rather  an  unde 
fined,  courteous,  well-bred  independ 
ence. 

When  it  came  to  rowing  a  gondola,  it 
never  seemed  to  me  that  he  rowed  be 
cause  it  was  his  duty  and  his  livelihood. 
He  rowed  because  he  loved  it,  and  be 
cause  he  loved  the  sunshine  across  his 
face  and  the  flash  of  the  water  on  his 
oar-blade  —  the  swing  and  freedom  of  it 
all.  My  happening  to  be  a  passenger 
was  but  one  of  those  necessary  evils  at 
tending  the  earning  and  payment  of  five 
francs  a  day.  And  yet,  not  altogether 
an  evil ;  for  he  loved  me,  too,  as  he  did 
everything  else  that  brought  him  com 
panionship  and  air  and  light  and  life. 
Nothing  seemed  to  tire  him.  Day  or 

38 


night,  or  all  night,  if  I  wished  it  —  for 
often  we  were  whole  nights  together  in 
the  soft  summer  air,  floating  back  to 
the  sleeping  city  in  the  gray  dawn,  stop 
ping  to  listen  to  early  mass  at  the  Pieta, 
or  following  the  fruit  boats  or  fishermen 
in  from  the  Lido. 

And  thus  it  was  that  we  ransacked 
Venice  from  San  Giorgio  to  Murano ; 
and  thus  it  was  that  every  day  I  caught 
some  fresh  glimpse  of  the  sweetness  of 
his  inner  nature,  and  every  day  loved 
him  the  better.  Nobody  could  have 
helped  it.  There  was  that  touch  about 
him  one  could  not  resist.  Once  on  the 
Giudecca,  when  the  sea  was  polished 
steel  and  the  tide  turning  ebb,  Espero 
ran  the  gondola  up  under  the  lee  of  a 
melon  boat,  its  sail  limp  and  useless  in 
the  breathless  air,  sprang  over  her  rail, 
caught  the  oar  from  the  captain,  fagged 
out  with  the  long  pull  from  the  Lido, 
and  threw  his  weight  against  the  droop 
ing  blade.  And  all  this  with  a  laugh 
and  a  twist  of  his  foot  in  pirouette,  as  if 
it  was  the  merriest  fun  in  the  world  to 
save  a  tide  and  a  market  for  a  man  he 
had  never  seen  in  his  life  before. 

On  another  morning  he  was  just  in 
time  to  save  Beppo  from  a  plunge  over 
board —  old  Beppo  who  for  centuries 
(nobody  knows  how  old  Beppo  is)  has 
39 


hooked  his  staff  into  myriads  of  gondo- 
GnMitr  las  landing  at  the  Salute  steps.  It  had 
happened  that  some  other  mediaeval 
ruin,  a  few  years  Beppo's  junior,  had 
crowded  the  old  man  from  his  place,  and 
Espero's  righteous  wrath  was  not  ap 
peased  until  he  had  driven  the  usurper 
from  the  piazza  of  the  church,  with  the 
parting  reminder  that  he  would  break 
every  bone  in  his  withered  old  skin  if 
he  ever  caught  him  there  again. 

And  yet,  with  all  my  opportunities 
for  intimacy,  I  really  got  no  nearer  to 
the  inner  side  of  Espero  than  the  day  I 
hired  him.  To  him  I  was  still  only  the 
painter  from  over  the  sea,  his  patron,  to 
whom  he  was  loyal,  good-natured,  hap 
py-hearted,  and  obliging ;  but  nothing 
more.  Nothing  more  was  for  sale  for 
five  francs  a  day.  What  his  home  or 
life  might  be  outside  the  hours  I  called 
my  own,  I  knew  no  more  than  of  the 
hundred  other  gondoliers  who  filled  the 
canal  with  their  cries  and  their  laughter. 
The  one  sole  connecting  link  was  the 
pretty  Venetian  of  the  little,  crooked 
canal,  who  waved  her  hand  whenever 
we  passed,  and  who  once  tossed  down  a 
spray  of  oleander  which  fell  at  his  feet  ; 
and  yet  I  could  not  even  have  found 
her  doorway,  much  less  have  told  her 
name. 

40 


One  beautiful,  bright  Sunday  morn-  Espero 
ing,  perplexed  at  this  unequal  exchange 
of  confidences,  this  idea  took  possession 
of  me.  Espero  and  I  would  breakfast 
together  —  blue  shirt,  patch,  and  all ! 
Not  as  we  had  often  breakfasted  before, 
in  the  gondola  under  the  shadow  of  a 
palace,  or  down  by  the  stalls  of  the  fruit 
market ;  but  at  the  great  Gaffe  Florian, 
in  the  Piazza  of  San  Marco,  at  twelve 
o'clock,  high  noon,  in  the  midst  of  gold 
embroidered  officers  with  clanking 
swords  and  waxed  mustaches,  and  ladies 
of  high  degree  in  dainty  gowns  and  veils. 

"  Leave  the  gondola,  Espero,  in  charge 
of  somebody,  and  come  with  me !  " 

We  twisted  our  way  through  the  nar 
row  slits  of  streets,  choked  with  awnings 
shading  groups  of  Venetians  sipping 
their  coffee,  dodged  under  an  archway, 
across  a  narrow  bridge,  and  so  out  upon 
the  blinding,  baking  Piazza,  dotted  here 
and  there  with  hurrying  figures,  dogged 
by  ink-spilled  shadows. 

"  Breakfast  for  two  !  "  I  said  to  the 
startled  waiter.  "  Take  the  seat  by  the 
window,  Espero ! " 

His  face  lighted  up,  and  an  expres 
sion  of  the  greatest  happiness  and  good- 
humor  overspread  it.  But  that  was  all. 
There  was  no  sign  of  humility ;  nothing 
indicating  that  I  had  done  him  a  kind- 


Espero  ness,  or  had  conferred  upon  him  any 
sPecial  favor.  He  merely  pointed  to 
himself,  and  then  to  the  seat,  as  if  mak 
ing  quite  sure,  saying,  "  Me,  signor  ? " 
and  then  sat  himself  down,  spreading 
his  napkin,  and  all  with  the  air  of  a  man 
accustomed  to  that  sort  of  thing  every 
day  of  his  life. 

I  ordered  nearly  everything  on  the 
bill  of  fare.  Fish,  eggs,  salad,  broiled 
cutlet,  fruit,  even  a  bottle  of  Chianti, 
with  silk  tassels  on  its  neck.  Espero 
took  each  in  its  course  with  the  easy 
grace  of  a  Chesterfield,  and  the  quiet 
refinement  of  a  man  of  the  world. 

The  only  person  who  put  his  astonish 
ment  into  words  was  the  head  waiter, 
who  caught  his  breath  when  I  lighted 
Espero's  cigarette  myself,  recounting  to 
his  assistant,  and  adding,  "  Ma  foiy  what 
funny  people  these  painters  !  " 

An  hour  later  we  were  again  afloat, 
embarking  at  the  water -steps  of  the 
Piazza. 

Just  here,  and  for  the  first  time  in  all 
our  intercourse,  I  noticed  a  change  in 
Espero's  bearing.  The  touch  of  humil 
ity  —  it  had  been  only  a  trace,  and,  as  I 
always  knew,  only  assumed  that  I  might 
see  he  recognized  the  obligation  of  five 
francs — even  that  slight  touch  was  gone. 

The  change  was  not  one  that  beto- 

4? 


kened  presuming  familiarity,  as  if  all  so- 
cial  barriers  having  now  been  swept 
away  he  would  insist  upon  sharing  with 
me  everything  I  owned.  It  was  more 
the  manner  of  a  man  clothed  with  the 
responsibilities  of  a  host ;  a  welcoming, 
generous,  appropriating  manner.  Here 
tofore,  when  I  had  stepped  into  the  gon 
dola,  Espero  invariably  offered  me  his 
bent  elbow  to  steady  myself;  but  now 
he  gave  me  his  hand. 

Furthermore,  he  did  not  wait  for  in 
structions  as  to  where  the  prow  of  the 
gondola  should  be  pointed.  He  said, 
instead:  — 

"  There  is  a  famous  old  Cortile  that  I 
must  show  you.  All  the  artists  paint  it. 
We  will  go  now !  " 

With  this  he  shot  past  our  customary 
landing-place,  entered  the  little,  crooked 
canal,  and  rounded  the  gondola  in  front 
of  an  old  marble  archway  curiously 
carved. 

I  began  to  wonder  at  the  change  that 
had  come  over  him.  What  was  there 
about  this  Cortile?  If  everybody  had 
painted  it,  why  should  he  have  kept  it 
hidden  all  summer  from  me  ? 

Espero's  manner  at  this  landing  was, 
if  anything,  more  expressive  than  at  the 
last ;  for,  after  securing  the  gondola,  he 
waved  his  hand  graciously  and  led  me 
43 


Espero  along  a  damp,  tunnel-like  passage,  un- 
GGondoiier  tn*  we  stepped  into  an  abandoned  clois 
ter,  once  the  most  beautiful  Cortile  in 
Venice. 

When  we  entered  the  sun  was  blazing 
against  the  opposite  wall,  the  nearer 
columns  standing  out  strong  and  dark. 
In  the  square,  bounded  by  the  low  wall 
supporting  the  pillars,  which  in  turn  sup 
ported  the  living  rooms  above,  climb 
ing  vines  and  grasses  ran  riot,  while  in 
the  centre  of  the  tangled  mass  of  weeds 
stood  an  old  covered  well,  at  which  a 
girl  was  filling  her  copper  water-pail. 

Espero  watched  my  delight  at  its 
picturesqueness,  laughing  outright  at 
my  determination  to  begin  work  at  once, 
and  then,  with  great  deference,  led  me 
to  a  doorway  level  with  the  flagging  of 
the  mouldy  pavement.  Here  he  rang 
a  bell  hung  on  the  outside.  The  next 
instant  a  shutter  opened  above  and  a 
pair  of  black  eyes  peered  out  from  be 
tween  some  pots  of  oleanders.  It  was 
the  same  face  I  had  seen  so  often  smil 
ing  at  Espero  from  an  upper  balcony ! 
The  cloister  evidently  abutted  on  the 
little,  crooked  canal.  This,  then,  was 
what  he  was  hiding !  But  surely  he 
could  not  have  thought  that  I  would 
have  stolen  his  sweetheart ! 

Another  moment  and  the  door  was 

44 


opened  by  the  same  pretty  Venetian, 
who  ushered  us  into  a  square  hall  having 
a  broad  staircase  which  led  to  the  floor 
above.  Here,  on  the  wainscoted  walls, 
half  way  to  the  ceiling,  hung  a  collec 
tion  of  old  portraits,  each  one  a  delight 
to  the  eye  of  a  painter.  They  were  of 
men,  costumed  in  the  time  of  the 
later  Doges  —  one  in  scarlet  and  black, 
another  in  a  robe  of  deep  blue,  while  a 
third  wore  a  semi-military  uniform  and 
carried  a  short  sword. 

They  all  had  one  distinguishing  fea 
ture  :  each  head  was  covered  by  a  bright 
red  hood. 

Espero  never  took  his  eyes  from  my 
face  as  I  looked  about  me  in  astonish 
ment,  not  even  long  enough  to  salute 
the  pretty  Venetian  who  stood  smiling 
at  his  side. 

"  Who  lives  here,  Espero  ? " 

"  My  grandfather,  signor,  who  is  very 
old,  lives  on  this  floor.  My  little  wife, 
Mariana,"  turning  to  the  pretty  Vene 
tian,  "  and  I  live  on  the  floor  above  ; " 
and  he  kissed  the  girl  on  the  forehead 
and  laid  her  hand  in  mine. 

"  And  these  portraits  "  — 

"  Are  some  of  the  famous  gondoliers 
of  old.     This  one  was  chief  of  the  Ar- 
senalotti,  and  an  intimate  friend  of  the 
Doge." 
45 


Espero  "  And  the  others  ? " 

Espero's  eyes  twinkled,  and  a  quizzi 
cal,  half -triumphant  smile  broke  over 
his  face. 

"  These  are  all  my  ancestors,  signer. 
We  have  been  gondoliers  for  two  hun 
dred  years.  I  am  a  Castellani ! " 


III.  UNDER  THE  MINARETS 

was  a  small,  not  over- 
clean,  and  much-crumpled 
card. 

It  was  held  very  near 
my  nose,  and  above  the 
heads  of  a  struggling, 
snarling  pack  of  Turks,  Armenians, 
Greeks,  and  Jews,  all  yelling  at  the  tops 
of  their  voices,  and  all  held  at  bay  by  a 
protecting  rail  in  the  station  and  two 
befezzed  officers  attached  to  the  custom 
house  of  his  Serene  Highness.  It  bore 
this  inscription :  — 

Isaac  Isaacs, 

Dragoman  and  Interpreter, 

Constantinople. 

Beyond  this  seething  mass  of  Orien 
tals  was  seen  an  open  door,  and  through 
this  only  the  sunlight,  a  patch  of  green 
grass,  and  the  glimpse  of  a  minaret 
against  the  blue. 

Yes  ;  one  thing  more  —  the  card. 
47 


Under  the  The  owner  carried  it  aloft,  like  a  flag 
of  truce.  He  had  escaped  the  tax-gath 
ering  section  of  the  Sublime  Porte  by 
dodging  under  the  guarded  rail,  and 
with  fez  to  earth  was  now  pressing  its 
oblong  proportions  within  an  inch  of 
my  eyeglasses. 

"  Do  you  speak  English  ? " 

"Ev'ting:  Yerman,  Tranche,  Grek, 
Tearkish  — all!" 

"  Take  this  sketch-trap,  and  get  me  a 
carriage." 

The  fez  righted  itself,  and  I  looked  into 
the  face  of  a  swarthy,  dark-bearded  mon 
grel,  with  a  tobacco-colored  complexion 
and  a  watery  eye.  He  was  gasping  for 
breath  and  reeking  with  perspiration, 
the  back  of  his  hand  serving  as  sponge. 

I  handed  him  my  check,  —  through 
baggage  Orient  Express,  two  days  from 
Vienna,  —  stepped  into  the  half-parched 
garden,  and  drank  in  my  first  full  breath 
of  Eastern  air. 

Within  the  garden  —  an  oasis,  barely 
kept  alive  by  periodical  sprinkling  — 
lounged  a  few  railroad  officials  hugging 
scant  shadows,  and  one  lone  Turk  dis- 
pensing  cooling  drinks  beneath  a  huge 
umbrella. 

Outside  the  garden's  protecting  fence 
wandered  half  the  lost  tribes  of  the 
earth.  Some  staggered  under  huge 

48 


casks  of  wine  swung  on  poles ;  some  Under  the 
bent  under  cases  as  large  as  pianos ;  ******** 
some  were  hawking  bread,  Turkish 
sweets,  grapes,  and  sugared  figs ;  some 
were  peddling  clothes,  some  sandals, 
some  water-jars  :  each  splitting  the  air 
with  a  combination  of  shouts  and  cries 
that  would  have  done  justice  to  a  travel 
ing  menagerie  two  hours  late  for  break 
fast.  In  and  out  this  motley  mob 
slouched  the  dogs  —  in  the  middle  of  the 
street,  under  the  benches,  in  everybody's 
way  and  under  everybody's  feet  :  every 
where  dogs,  dogs,  dogs ! 

Beyond  this  babel  straggled  a  low 
building  attached  to  the  station.  Above 
rose  a  ragged  hill  crowned  by  a  shim 
mering  wall  of  dazzling  white,  topped 
with  rounded  dome  and  slender  minarets. 
Over  all  was  the  beautiful  sky  of  the 
East,  the  joy  and  despair  of  every  brush 
from  the  earliest  times  down  to  my  own. 


Ever  since  the  days  of  the  Arabian 
Nights  —  my  days  —  the  days  of  Ha- 
roun  al  Raschid,  of  the  big  jars  with  the 
forty  scalded  thieves  and  the  beautiful 
Fatima  with  the  almond-shaped  eyes,  I 
have  dreamed  of  the  Orient  and  its 
palaces  of  marble.  And  so,  when  Baron 

49 


Under  the  de  Hirsch  had  brought  the  home  of  the 
Minarets  caijpns  within  two  days'  journey  of  the 
domes  of  San  Marco,  I  threw  some  extra 
canvases  into  a  trunk,  tucked  a  passport 
into  my  inside  pocket,  shouldered  my 
sketch-trap,  and  bought  a  second-class 
ticket  for  Constantinople. 

I  had  only  one  object  —  to  paint. 

My  comrades  at  Florian's  —  that  most 
delightful  of  caffes  on  the  Piazza  — 
when  they  heard  that  I  was  about  to  ex 
change  the  cool  canals  of  my  beloved 
Venice  for  the  dusty  highways  of  the 
unspeakable  Turk,  condemned  my  de 
parture  as  quixotic.  The  fleas  would 
devour  me ;  the  beggars  (all  bandits) 
steal  my  last  franc ;  and  the  govern 
ment  lock  me  up  the  very  first  moment  I 
loosened  my  sketch-trap. 

But  Isaac  Isaacs,  the  dragoman,  is 
standing  obsequiously  with  fez  in  hand, 
two  little  rivulets  of  well-earned  sweat 
coursing  down  each  cheek. 

"Ze  baggages  ees  complet,  effendi." 

Isaac  crawled  upon  the  box,  the  driver, 
a  barelegged  Turk  with  fez  and  stomach 
sash,  drove  his  heel  into  the  haunches 
of  the  near  horse,  once,  no  doubt,  the 
pride  of  the  desert,  and  we  whirled  away 
in  a  cloud  of  dust. 

"  I  don't  see  my  trunk,  Isaac." 

"Not  presently,  effendi.  It  now  ar- 

50 


rives   immediatamente   at    the    dogane.  Under  th* 
Trust  me ! " 

Five  minutes  more,  and  we  alighted 
at  the  custom-house. 

"This  way,  effendi." 

For  the  benefit  of  those  unfamiliar 
with  the  liquid  language  of  the  Orient, 
I  will  say  that  effendi  means  master,  and 
that  it  is  never  applied  except  to  some 
distinguished  person  —  one  who  has,  or 
is  expected  to  have,  the  sum  of  half  a 
piastre  about  his  person. 

Isaac  presented  the  check  —  a  scrap 
of  paper  —  to  another  befezzed  official, 
and  the  next  moment  ushered  me  into  a 
small  room  on  the  ground-floor,  furnished 
with  a  divan,  a  tray  with  coffee  and  ciga 
rettes,  and  an  overfed,  cross-legged  Turk. 
There  was  also  a  secretary,  curled  up 
somewhere  in  a  corner,  scratching  away 
with  a  pen. 

I  salaamed  to  the  Turk,  detailed  into 
the  secretary's  ear  an  account  of  my 
birth  and  ancestry,  my  several  occupa 
tions  and  ambitions,  my  early  life  at 
home,  my  past  life  in  Venice,  and  my 
present  intentions  in  Constantinople.  I 
then  opened  my  passport,  sketch-book, 
and  trap,  and  delivered  up  the  key  of 
my  trunk. 

The  secretary  undid  his  legs,  stamped 
upon  my  official  passport  a  monogram 
51 


Under  the  of  authority  looking  more  like  the  image 
*refs  of  a  fish-worm  petrified  in  the  last  ago 
nies  of  death  than  any  written  sign  with 
which  I  was  familiar,  and  clapped  his 
hands  in  a  perfectly  natural  Aladdin 
sort  of  way.  A  genie  in  the  shape  of 
a  Nubian,  immeasurably  black,  moved 
from  behind  a  curtain,  and  in  five  min 
utes  my  trunk  holding  the  extra  can 
vases,  with  a  great  white  cross  of  peace 
chalked  upon  its  face,  was  strapped  to 
the  carriage,  and  we  on  our  way  to  the 
Royal. 

As  I  said  before,  I  had  come  to  Con 
stantinople  to  paint.  Not  to  study  its 
exquisite  palaces  and  mosques  ;  its  mar 
velous  stuffs ;  its  romantic  history ;  its 
religion,  the  most  profound  and  impres 
sive  ;  its  commerce,  industries,  and  cus 
toms  ;  but  simply  to  paint.  To  revel  in 
color ;  to  sit  for  hours  following  with 
reverent  pencil  the  details  of  an  archi 
tecture  unrivaled  on  the  globe ;  to 
watch  the  sun  scale  the  hills  of  Scutari, 
and  shatter  its  lances  against  the  fairy 
minarets  of  Stamboul ;  to  catch  the 
swing  and  plash  of  the  rowers  rounding 
their  caYques  by  the  bridge  of  Galata ;  to 
wander  through  bazaar,  plaza,  and  mar 
ket,  dotting  down  splashes  of  robe,  tur 
ban,  and  sash ;  to  rest  for  hours  in  cool 
tiled  mosques,  with  the  silence  of  the 

52 


infinite  about  me ;  to  steep  my  soul  in  a  Under  th' 
splendor  which  in  its  very  decay  is  sub-  m 
lime ;  and  to  study  a  people  whose  rags 
are  symphonies  of   color,  whose   tradi 
tions  and  records  the  sweetest  poems  of 
modern  times.     If  you  are  content  with 
only  this,  then  come  with  me  to  the  pa 
tio  of  the  Mosque  Bayazid  —  the  Pigeon 
Mosque. 

Isaac  Isaacs,  dragoman,  stands  at  its 
door,  with  one  hand  over  his  heart,  the 
other  raised  aloft,  invoking  the  condem 
nation  of  the  gods  if  he  lies.  In  his 
earnestness  he  is  pushing  back  his  fez, 
disclosing  an  ugly  old  scar  in  his  wrin 
kled,  leathery  forehead  —  a  sabre  cut,  he 
tells  me,  in  a  burst  of  confidence,  won 
in  the  last  row  with  Russia.  His  black 
beard  is  shaking  like  a  goat's,  while  his 
hands,  with  upturned  palms  and  thumbs, 
touch  his  shoulders  with  the  old  wavy 
motion  common  to  his  race.  Standing 
now  in  the  shadow  of  the  archway,  he 
insists  that  no  unbeliever  is  ever  per 
mitted  to  make  pictures  in  the  patio, 
where  flows  the  sacred  fountain,  and 
where  the  priests  and  faithful  wash 
their  feet  before  entering  the  holy  tem 
ple. 

I  had  heard  something  like  this  before. 
The  idlers  at  Florian's  had  all  said  so ; 
an  intelligent  Greek  merchant  whom  I 
53 


Under  the  met  on  the  train  had  been  sure  of  it ; 

Minarets      ^  eyen  the  clerk  Q£  the  R()yal  shrugged 

his  shoulders  and  thought  I  had  better 
not. 

All  this  time  —  Isaac  still  invoking 
new  gods  —  I  was  gazing  into  the  most 
beautiful  patio  along  the  Golden  Horn, 
feasting  my  eyes  on  columns  of  verd- 
antique  supporting  arches  light  as  rain 
bows. 

Crossing  the  threshold,  I  dropped  my 
trap  behind  a  protecting  column,  and 
ran  my  eye  around  the  Moorish  square. 
The  sun  blazed  down  on  glistening  mar 
bles  ;  gnarled  old  cedars  twisted  them 
selves  upward  against  the  sky ;  flocks 
of  pigeons  whirled  and  swooped  and  fell 
in  showers  on  cornice,  roof,  and  dome  ; 
and  tall  minarets,  like  shafts  of  light, 
shot  up  into  the  blue.  Scattered  over 
the  uneven  pavement,  patched  with 
strips  and  squares  of  shadows,  lounged 
groups  of  priests  in  bewildering  robes 
of  mauve,  corn-yellow,  white  and  sea- 
green,  while  back  beneath  the  cool  arches 
bunches  of  natives  listlessly  pursued 
their  several  avocations. 

It  was  a  sight  that  brought  the  blood 
with  a  rush  to  my  cheek.  Here  at  last 
was  the  East,  the  land  of  my  dreams  ! 
That  swarthy  Mussulman  at  his  little 
square  table  mending  seals ;  that  fellow 

54 


next  him  selling  herbs,  sprawled  out  on  Under  the 
the  marble  floor,  too  lazy  to  crawl  away  Minarets 
from  the  slant  of  the  sunshine  slipping 
through  the  ragged  awning ;   and  that 
young  Turk  in   frayed  and   soiled  em 
broidered  jacket,  holding  up  strings  of 
beads  to  the  priests  passing  in  and  out, 
—  had  I  not  seen  them  over  and  over 
again  ? 

And  the  old  public  scribe  with  the 
gray  beard  and  white  turban  writing  let 
ters,  the  motionless  veiled  figures  squat 
ting  around  him,  was  he  not  Baba 
Mustapha,  and  the  soft-eyed  girl  whis 
pering  into  his  ear  none  other  than  Mor- 
giana,  "  fair  as  the  meridian  sun  "  ? 

Was  I  to  devour  all  this  with  my  eyes, 
and  fill  my  soul  with  its  beauty,  and 
take  nothing  away  ?  My  mind  was 
made  up  the  moment  I  looked  into  the 
old  scribe's  face.  Once  get  the  confi 
dence  of  this  secret  repository  of  half 
the  love-making  and  intrigue  in  Stam- 
boul,  and  I  was  safe. 

"  Isaac ! " 

"Yes,  effendi." 

"  Do  you  know  the  scribe  ? " 

Isaac  advanced  a  step,  scrutinized  the 
old  patriarch  for  a  moment,  and  re 
plied,  — 

"  Effendi,  pardonnez,  he  the  one  only 
man  in  Stamboul  I  not  know." 
55 


Under  the       This  time,  I  noticed,  he  omitted  the 

Minarets      invocation  to  the  gods. 

"  Then  I  '11  present  you." 

I  waited  until  the  scribe  looked  up 
and  caught  my  eye.  Then  I  bowed  my 
head  reverently,  and  gave  him  the  Turk 
ish  salute.  It  is  a  most  respectful  salu 
tation.  You  stoop  to  the  ground,  pick 
up  an  imaginary  handful  of  dust,  press 
it  to  your  heart,  lips,  and  forehead  in 
token  of  your  sincerity  and  esteem,  and 
then  scatter  it  to  the  four  winds  of  hea 
ven.  Rapidly  done,  it  looks  like  brush 
ing  off  a  fly. 

The  old  scribe  arose  with  the  dignity 
of  King  Solomon  —  I  am  quite  sure  he 
looked  like  him  —  and  offered  me  his 
own  straw-thatched  stool.  I  accepted  it 
gravely,  and  opened  my  cigarette  case. 

He  unseated  a  client,  dismissed  his 
business  for  the  day,  and  sat  down  beside 
me.  Then,  Isaac  interpreting,  I  turned 
my  sketch-book  leaf  by  leaf,  showing 
him  bits  of  Venice,  and  in  the  back  of 
the  book  some  tall  minarets  of  an  old 
mosque  caught  on  my  way  through 
Bulgaria. 

It  was  curious  to  watch  his  face  as 
the  dragoman  located  for  him  the  several 
scraps  and  blots,  and  explained  their 
meaning.  He  evidently  had  never  seen 
their  like  before.  When  he  came  to  the 

56 


minaret,  his  eye  brightened,  and  point-  u*?*r  the 
ing  upward  to  the  one  above  our  heads, 
he  drew  an  imaginary  outline  with  his 
hand,  and  pointed  to  me.  I  nodded  my 
head.  At  this  he  looked  grave,  and  I 
forthwith  sent  Isaac  for  coffee,  and 
lighted  another  cigarette.  Before  the 
cups  were  emptied  I  had  formally  and 
with  great  ceremony  asked  and  received 
permission  to  paint  the  most  sacred 
patio,  Isaac  protesting  all  the  time  in 
high  dudgeon  as  he  unbuckled  my  trap, 
that  the  scribe  was  a  common  pauper, 
earning  but  a  spoonful  of  copper  coin 
in  a  day,  with  no  more  right  to  grant 
me  a  permit  than  the  flea-bitten  beg 
gar  at  the  gate.  It  was  evident  that 
Isaac  had  not  come  to  Constantinople 
to  paint. 

Half  an  hour  later,  the  arches  were 
sketched  in,  the  pillars  and  roof  line 
complete,  and  I  rapidly  nearing  that 
part  in  my  work  in  which  the  pencil  is 
exchanged  for  my  palette,  when  the 
shrill  voice  of  the  muezzin  calling  the 
faithful  to  prayer  sounded  above  my 
head.  I  could  see  his  little  white  dot 
of  a  turban  bobbing  away  high  above 
me  on  the  minaret,  his  blue  robe  wav 
ing  in  the  soft  air. 

In  an  instant  priests,  seal-maker,  herb- 
doctor,  and  peddler  crowded  about  the 
57 


Under  tht  fountain,  washed  their  faces  and  feet, 
Minarets  an(j  moved  siiently  and  reverently  into 
the  mosque.  Soon  the  patio  was  deserted 
by  all  except  Isaac,  the  pigeons,  and  the 
scribe,  —  the  kindly  old  scribe,  —  who 
remained  glued  to  his  seat,  lost  in 
wonder. 

Another  hour,  and  the  worshipers 
came  straggling  back,  resuming  their 
several  avocations.  Last  of  all  came 
the  priests,  in  groups  of  eight  or  ten, 
flashing  masses  of  color  as  they  stepped 
out  of  the  cool  arches  into  the  blinding 
sunlight.  They  approached  my  easel 
with  that  easy  rhythmic  movement,  so 
gracefully  accentuated  by  their  flowing 
robes,  stopped  short,  and  silently 
grouped  themselves  about  me.  I  had 
now  the  creamy  white  of  the  minaret 
sharp  against  the  blue,  and  the  entrance 
of  the  mosque  in  clear  relief. 

For  an  instant  there  was  a  hurried 
consultation.  Then  a  beardless  young 
priest  courteously  but  firmly  expounded 
to  Isaac  some  of  the  fundamental  doc 
trines  of  the  Mohammedan  faith, — 
this  one  in  particular,  "  Thou  shalt  not 
paint." 

Before  I  could  call  to  Isaac,  I  felt  a 
hand  caress  my  shoulder,  and  raised  my 
head.  The  scribe,  with  faded  robe  gath 
ered  about  him,  stood  gazing  into  the 

58 


face  of  the  speaker.     I  held  my  breath,  Under  the 
wondering  whether,  after  all,  I  had  left  Minarets 
San  Marco   in   vain.      Isaac   remained 
mute,  a  half-triumphant  "  I  told  you  so" 
expression  lighting  up  his  face. 

Then  the  old  scribe  waved  Isaac 
aside,  and,  drawing  himself  to  his  full 
height,  his  long  beard  blending  with  his 
white  robe,  answered  in  his  stead.  "I 
have  given  my  word  to  the  Frank.  He 
is  not  a  giaour,  but  a  true  Moslem,  a 
holy  man,  who  loves  our  temple.  I  have 
broken  bread  with  him.  He  is  my  friend, 
bone  of  my  bone,  blood  of  my  blood. 
You  cannot  drive  him  away." 

After  that,  painting  about  Constanti 
nople  became  quite  easy.  Perhaps  the 
priests  told  it  to  their  fellow-priests, 
who  spread  it  abroad  among  the  faith 
ful  in  the  mosques ;  perhaps  the  gossips 
around  the  patio  took  it  up,  or  the  good 
scribe  whispered  it  into  the  veiled  ear 
of  his  next  fair  client,  and  so  gave  it 
wings.  How  it  happened,  I  know  not ; 
but  from  that  day  my  white  umbrella 
became  a  banner  of  peace,  and  my  open 
sketch-book  a  passport  to  everybody's 
courtesy  and  everybody's  good  will. 


59 


Under  the  Let  me  remind  those  who  may  have 
forgotten  it  that  there  is  really  no  such 
place  as  Constantinople.  There  is,  of 
course,  the  old  Turkish  city  of  Stam- 
boul,  with  all  the  great  mosques :  the 
mosque  of  the  Six  Minarets;  the  Sul 
tana  Valede;  Soliman,  and  some  hun 
dred  others  —  and  where,  moreover,  one 
finds  the  great  bazaar  —  twelve  miles  of 
arcaded  streets  in  a  tangle  —  the  caffes, 
drug -markets,  fish -markets,  spice -mar 
kets,  vile-smelling,  dirt-choked  alleys  and 
baths. 

Then  there  is  the  European  city  of 
Pera,  up  a  hill,  —  a  long  way  up,  —  with 
its  modern  tramway  below,  and  the  an 
cient  tower  of  the  Genoise  crowning  the 
top.  Pera,  rebuilt  since  the  fire,  with  its 
new  hotels  and  foreign  embassies,  its 
modern  shops  filled  with  machine-made 
Oriental  embroideries,  and  its  more 
modern  streets  flanked  by  the  everlast 
ing  four-story  house  with  the  flat  roof 
and  balcony,  and  the  same  old  cast-iron 
railings  and  half -dead  potted  plants. 
Pera,  the  commonplace,  except,  perhaps, 
for  one  delightfully  picturesque  old  cem 
etery  with  its  curious  headstones  and 
dismal  cypresses  which  could  not  be 

60 


burned,  and  so  could  not  be  rebuilt  and  Under  the 
ruined.  Minarets 

And  last,  across  the  Bosphorus,  is 
Scutari,  only  ten  minutes  by  ferry-boat. 
Scutari-in-Asia,  with  mosques,  archways, 
palaces,  seraglios,  fruit-markets,  Arab 
horses,  priests,  eunuchs  with  bevies  of 
houris  out  for  an  airing,  gay  awnings, 
silks  in  festoons  from  shop  doors,  streets 
crowded  with  carnival-like  people  wear 
ing  every  color  under  the  sun,  Bedouins 
on  horseback  riding  rapidly  through  nar 
row  streets,  tons  and  tons  of  grapes 
piled  up  in  baskets,  soldiers  in  fez  and 
brown  linen  suits  :  —  everything  that  is 
foreign  and  un-European,  and  out  of  the 
common  world.  A  bewildering,  over 
whelming,  intoxicating  sight  to  a  man 
who  has  traveled  one  half  the  world 
over  to  find  the  picturesque,  and  who 
suddenly  comes  upon  all  there  is  in  the 
other  half  crammed  into  one  compact 
mass  a  mile  square. 

Isaac  never  quite  understands  why  I 
go  about  absorbed  in  these  things,  and 
why  I  ignore  the  regulation  sights  —  the 
mosque  with  the  Persian  tiles,  three 
miles  away  and  a  carriage ;  the  treas 
ury  at  Seraglio  Point,  opened  only  by 
permit  from  the  Grand  Vizier  (price 
£2) ;  the  dancing  dervishes  at  Pera ;  the 
howling  dervishes  at  Scutari ;  and  the 
61 


Under  the  identical  spot   where  Leander   plunged 

Minarets      into  the  sea. 

I  finally  compromised  with  Isaac  on 
the  dervishes.  We  had  spent  the  morn 
ing  at  Scutari,  where  I  had  been  paint 
ing  an  old  mosque.  It  was  howling- 
dervish  day,  —  it  comes  but  once  a  week, 
the  howl  beginning  at  three  p.  M.  pre 
cisely,  —  and  to  satisfy  Isaac  I  had  left 
the  sunshine  for  an  hour  to  watch  their 
curious  service. 

I  had,  it  is  proper  to  state,  wrung  a 
confession  that  morning  from  Isaac 
which  had  so  humiliated  him  that  he  had 
suggested  the  dervishes  to  divert  my 
attention.  A  dragoman  of  the  opposi 
tion,  a  veritable  son  of  Abraham,  had  be 
trayed  him.  He  had  bitten  his  thumb 
at  him,  not  literally  but  figuratively,  and 
this  in  very  decent  English  —  no,  the 
reverse.  He  had  charged  him  with 
fraud.  He  had  said  that  his  name  was 
not  Isaac  Isaacs,  but  Yapouly  —  Dreco 
Yapouly ;  that  he  was  not  an  honest 
Jew,  but  a  dog  of  a  Turk,  who  had  stolen 
honest  Isaac's  name  when  he  died.  Yes, 
robbed  him,  ghoul,  grave-digger,  beast ! 
He  with  a  scar  on  his  forehead,  where 
he  had  been  branded  for  theft !  And 
here  the  opposition  dragoman  snatched 
Isaac's  fez  from  his  head,  and  ground 
it  into  the  dirt  with  his  heel. 

62 


After  a  gendarme  had  taken  this  very  Under  the 
disagreeable  opposition  dragoman  away,  Minarets 
Isaac  had  confessed.  So  many  English 
men,  Frenchmen,  Americans,  he  said, 
had  wanted  Mr.  Isaacs  that  he  had  con 
cluded  that  it  was  cruel  not  to  accom 
modate  them.  Of  what  use,  estimable 
effendi,  was  a  dead  Jew?  How  infi 
nitely  better  a  live  Turk !  So  one  day, 
when  hanging  over  the  rail  at  the  station, 
an  Englishman  had  arrived  holding  the 
deceased  Isaac's  card  in  his  hand,  and 
since  that  time  Yapouly  had  been  Isaac 
Isaacs  to  the  stranger  and  the  wayfaring 
man.  "  See,  effendi,  here  the  Angleesh- 
man  card." 

It  was  the  same  the  rascal  had  pressed 
into  my  own  face  ! 

Thus  it  was  that  Dreco  Yapouly 
Isaacs  —  I  will  no  longer  lend  myself  to 
his  villainous  deception  —  preceded  me 
this  day  up  a  steep  hill  paved  with  boul 
ders,  entered  the  low  door  of  the  tekke 
(house)  of  the  dervishes,  and  motioned 
me  to  a  seat  in  a  small  open  court  shel 
tered  by  an  arbor  covered  with  vines. 

In  the  centre  was  a  well  flagged  by  a 
great  stone,  and  on  this  rested  a  high 
narrow-necked  silver  pitcher  of  perfect 
Oriental  shape  used  by  the  priests  in 
their  ablutions.  At  the  door  of  the 
sacred  room  stood  a  stalwart  Nubian 
63 


Under  the  dressed   in   pure  white  —  ten   times   as 

Minarets      y^  by  CQntrast 

Five  francs,  and  we  passed  the  hang 
ing  curtain  covering  the  entrance,  and 
stepped  inside  a  square,  low-ceiled  room 
hung  with  tambourines,  cymbals,  arms, 
and  banners,  and  surrounded  on  three 
sides  by  an  aisle. 

The  howlers  —  there  were  at  least  a 
dozen  —  were  standing  in  a  straight  row 
on  the  floor,  like  a  class  at  school,  fa 
cing  their  master,  an  old,  long-bearded 
priest  squatting  on  a  mat  before  the 
altar. 

As  we  entered,  they  were  wagging 
their  heads  in  unison,  keeping  time  to 
a  chant  monotoned  by  the  old  priest. 
They  were  of  all  ages ;  fat  and  lean, 
smooth-shaven  and  bearded;  some  in 
rich  garments,  others  in  more  sombre 
and  cheaper  stuffs. 

One  face  cut  itself  into  my  memory, 
—  that  of  a  handsome,  clear  -  skinned 
young  man,  with  deep,  intense  eyes 
and  a  sinewy,  graceful  body.  On  one 
of  his  delicate,  lady-white  hands  was  a 
large  turquoise  ring.  Yapouly  whis 
pered  to  me  that  he  was  the  son  of  the 
high  priest,  and  would  succeed  his  father 
when  the  old  man  died. 

The  chant  continued,  rising  in  volume 
and  intensity,  and  a  Nubian  in  white 

64 


handed    each    man    a   black    skull-cap.  Under  the 
These  they  drew  tightly  over  their  per-  A 
spiring  heads. 

The  movement,  which  had  begun  with 
the  slow  rolling  of  their  heads,  now  ex 
tended  to  their  bodies.  They  writhed 
and  twisted  as  if  in  agony,  —  a  row  of 
black-capped  felons  suspended  from  un 
seen  ropes. 

Suddenly  there  darted  out  upon  the 
mats  a  boy  scarce  ten  years  of  age,  spin 
ning  like  a  top,  his  skirts  level  with  his 
hands. 

The  chant  broke  into  a  wail,  the  audi 
ence  joining  in.  The  howls  were  deafen 
ing.  The  priest  rose  from  the  mats  by 
the  altar,  slowly  waved  his  hands,  and 
began  moving  around  the  room,  the 
worshipers  reaching  forward  and  kissing 
the  hem  of  his  robe.  As  he  passed,  each 
dervish  stepped  one  pace  forward,  and 
handed  his  outer  robe  to  the  Nubian, 
who  piled  them  on  the  floor  in  front  of 
the  altar. 

The  twelve  were  now  rocking  their 
heads  in  a  wild  frenzy,  groaning  in  long, 
subdued  moans,  ending  in  a  peculiar 
"hough,"  like  the  sound  of  a  dozen  dis 
tant  locomotives  tugging  up  a  steep 
grade. 

"  Allah,  hou !  Allah,  hou !  Allah,  hou ! " 
—  the  last  word  expelled  with  a  jerk. 

65 


Under  the  Their  eyes  were  starting  from  their 
heads,  their  parched  tongues  hanging 
out,  the  sweat  pouring  from  their  faces. 
The  young  priest  was  livid,  with  eyes 
closed,  —  his  body  swaying  uneasily. 

A  dozen  little  children  were  here 
handed  over  the  rail  to  the  Nubian,  who 
took  them  in  his  arms  and  laid  them  in 
a  row,  with  their  faces  flattened  to  the 
mats.  The  old  priest  advanced  within  a 
step  of  the  first  child,  his  lips  moving 
in  prayer,  and  stretched  his  arms  above 
the  motionless  line  of  fat,  chubby  little 
bodies. 

Yapouly  Isaac  leaned  over  and  whis 
pered,  "  See,  now  he  bless  them." 

I  raised  myself  on  my  feet,  to  see  the 
better.  The  Nubian  held  out  his  hand 
to  the  old  priest,  who  balanced  himself 
for  a  moment,  stepped  firmly  upon  the 
first  child,  his  bare  feet  sinking  into  its 
soft,  yielding  flesh,  and  then  walked  de 
liberately  across  the  row  of  prostrate 
children.  As  he  passed,  each  little  tot 
raised  its  head,  watched  until  the  last 
child  had  been  trampled  upon,  then 
sprang  up,  kissed  the  old  priest's  robe, 
and  ran  laughing  from  the  room. 

The  sight  now  was  sickening ;  the 
dervishes  were  in  the  last  stages  of  ex 
hausted  frenzy.  The  once  handsome 
young  priest  was  ghastly,  frothing  at 

66 


the  mouth,  only  the  white  of  his  eyes  Under  the 
visible,  —  his  voice  was  thick,  his  breath  Minarets 
almost  gone.     The  others  were  droop 
ing,  with   knees   bent,  hardly   able   to 
stand. 

Suddenly  the  priest  turned  his  back, 
prostrated  himself  before  the  altar,  and 
prayed  silently.  The  whirling  child 
sank  to  the  ground.  The  line  of  der 
vishes  grew  still,  tottered  along  the 
floor,  clutched  at  the  hanging  curtain, 
and  staggered  into  the  sunlight. 

I  forced  my  way  along  the  closely 
packed  aisle,  and  rushed  into  the  open 
air.  The  sight  that  met  my  eye  stunned 
me  ;  my  breath  stopped  short.  In  the 
midst  of  the  court  stood  the  Nubian 
serving  coffee,  the  howlers  crowding 
about  him,  clamoring  for  cups,  and 
panting  for  breath  like  a  team  of  ath 
letes  in  from  a  foot-race.  I  looked  for 
my  young  priest  with  the  turquoise 
ring.  He  was  sitting  on  a  bench,  roll 
ing  a  cigarette,  his  face  wreathed  with 
smiles  ! 


And  yet  the  Mohammedan  priest, 
despite  his  fanaticism,  is  really  a  most 
delightful  companion.  His  tastes  are 
refined,  his  garments  spotless,  his  man- 


Under  the  ners  easy  and  graceful,  and  his  whole 
Minarets    bearmg  distinguished  by  a  repose  that 
is   superb,  —  the   repose   of    unlimited 
idleness  dignified   by  unquestioned  re 
ligious  authority. 

I  remember  one  in  particular  who 
spent  a  morning  with  me,  —  a  noble  old 
patriarch,  dressed  in  a  delicate  egg 
shell-colored  robe  that  floated  about  his 
feet  as  he  walked,  an  under-garment  of 
mauve,  with  waist  sash  of  pale  blue,  and 
a  snow-drift  of  silk  on  his  head.  For 
four  broiling  hours,  with  only  such 
shade  as  a  half-withered  plane-tree  could 
afford,  did  this  majestic  old  fellow,  with 
slippers  tucked  under  him,  sit  and  drink 
in  every  movement  of  my  brush.  When 
I  had  finished,  he  arose,  saluted  me  after 
the  manner  of  his  race,  and  pointing 
first  to  the  sketch,  and  then  to  the  glis 
tening  mosque,  said,  in  the  softest  of 
voices :  — 

"  Good  dragoman,  tell  your  master  I 
have  for  him  a  very  great  respect.  He 
has  opened  my  eyes  to  many  beautiful 
things.  I  am  sure  he  is  a  most  learned 
man,"  and  passed  on  with  the  dignity 
and  composure  of  a  Doge. 

Everywhere  else  did  I  find  this  same 
spontaneous,  generous  courtesy  and 
kindly  good-humor.  Only  once  was  I 
rebuffed.  It  was  in  the  open  plaza  of 

68 


the  Valede".  I  had  been  watching  the  Under  the 
shifting  scene,  following  eagerly  the  Mtn( 
little  dabs  of  color  hurrying  over  the 
heated  pavement,  when  my  eye  fell 
upon  a  cobbler  but  a  few  yards  off,  peg 
ging  away  at  an  upturned  shoe.  When 
my  restless  pencil  had  fastened  his  fez 
upon  his  head,  and  linked  his  body  to 
his  three-legged  stool,  a  laugh  broke 
out  among  the  bystanders  crowded 
about  me,  one  jovial  old  Turk  calling  out 
to  the  unconscious  model.  In  a  mo 
ment  he  was  on  his  feet,  forcing  his 
way  through  the  throng  behind  me. 
Then  a  hand  clutched  my  shoulder,  and 
the  next  instant  a  wet  leather  sole  was 
thrust  forward  and  ground  into  my  pa 
per,  spoiling  the  sketch. 

It  took  five  minutes  of  my  most 
subtle  Oriental  diplomacy,  sweetened 
with  several  cups  of  the  choicest  Turk 
ish  coffee,  to  convince  this  indignant 
shoemaker  that  I  meant  no  offense. 
When  I  had  succeeded,  he  was  so  pro 
fuse  in  his  apologies  that  I  had  to 
smoke  a  chibouque  with  him,  at  his  ex 
pense,  to  restore  his  equanimity. 

And  yet,  under  all  the  courtesy  and 
good-nature  I  found  everywhere,  I  could 
not  help  noticing  that  a  certain  disquiet 
and  nervous  fear  permeated  all  classes, 
—  priests  and  people  alike.  The  gov- 
69 


Under  the  ernment's  extreme  poverty  and  con- 
Minarets  stant  watchfulness  are  two  things  the  in 
habitant  never  forgets, — one  concerns 
his  taxes,  the  other  his  liberty.  This 
fear  is  so  great  that  many  public  topics 
worn  threadbare  by  most  Europeans  are 
never  whispered  by  a  Turk  to  his  most 
intimate  friend.  Even  my  dear  friend 
and  confidential  adviser,  Mr.  Yapouly, 
finds  now  and  then  a  subject  upon  which 
he  is  silent.  One  day  I  asked  him  who 
had  been  suspected  of  murdering  the 
predecessor  of  the  present  Sultan,  and 
why  it  had  been  thought  necessary  to  re 
move  that  luxurious  son  of  the  Prophet. 
It  was  an  idle  question  on  my  part, 
and  one  I  supposed  anybody  in  Con 
stantinople  could  answer ;  especially  so 
learned  and  versatile  a  dragoman  as  Mr. 
Yapouly.  To  my  surprise  he  made  no 
reply :  we  were  in  Pera  at  the  time,  he 
preceding  me  with  the  trap.  When  we 
reached  the  long  cemetery,  he  stopped, 
looked  carefully  over  the  low  wall,  as  if 
fearing  the  very  graves,  and  then  said, 
in  his  broken  conglomerate,  too  shat 
tered  to  reproduce  here  :  — 

"  Effendi,  you  must  not  ask  such 
questions.  Everybody  is  a  spy :  the 
man  asleep  on  the  sofa  in  the  hotel,  the 
waiter  behind  your  chair,  the  barber 
who  shaves  you.  Some  night  your  bed 

70 


will  be  empty.     Nobody  ever  asks  such  Under  the 
questions  in  Constantinople." 

Nor  is  this  unrest  confined  to  the 
people.  I  noticed  the  same  anxious 
look  on  the  Sultan's  face  the  day  of  the 
salemlik — the  day  he  drives  publicly  to 
the  little  mosque  to  pray,  the  mosque 
outside  the  palace  gates.  His  face  was 
like  that  of  the  acrobat  riding  bareback 
at  the  circus  hoop — glad  to  be  through. 

But  I  am  in  Constantinople  to  paint, 
not  to  moralize,  and  these  glimpses  of 
the  treacherous,  deadly  stream  that  flows 
beneath  Turkish  life  are  not  to  my  lik 
ing.  I  want  only  the  gay  flowers  above 
its  banks  and  the  soft  summer  air  on 
my  cheek,  the  tall  grasses  waving  in  the 
sunlight,  and  the  glow  and  radiance  of 
it  all.  So,  if  you  please,  we  will  go  back 
to  my  mosque,  and  my  delightful  old 
priests,  and  the  Greek  who  sells  me 
grapes  and  weighs  them  in  a  pair  of  tee 
tering  scales,  and  my  cai'que  with  the 
pew  cushion  over  the  bottom,  and  the 
big  cai'kjis,  with  the  chest  of  a  Hercules 
and  the  legs  of  a  satyr,  who  rows  my 
Oriental  gondola,  and  all  the  beautiful 
patches  of  color,  fretted  arch,  and  slen 
der  column  that  make  life  enchanting  in 
this  lotus-eating  land ;  and  even  to  Mr. 
Yapouly,  Mr.  Dreco  Yapouly,  who  tells 
me  he  has  reformed,  and  will  never  lie 


Under  the  more,  "  so  help  him,"  -  -  Mr.  Dreco 
Isaacs  Yapouly,  who  has  lately  ceased 
his  unanswered  appeals  to  the  gods,  and 
who  has  left  off  all  his  evil  ways. 

But  then  I  remember  that  I  cannot 
go  back  to  my  old  life  now,  for  the  sum 
mer  is  ended.  Last  night  there  was  a 
great  storm  of  wind  and  a  deluge  of  rain, 
the  first  for  four  months.  All  the  gold- 
dust  has  been  washed  from  the  trees 
and  the  grasses.  The  plaza  of  the  Va- 
lede"  is  scoured  clean.  The  little  waves 
around  the  Galata  no  longer  lap  their 
tongues  indolently  about  the  soggy,  rot 
ten  floats,  but  snap  angrily  in  the  bleak 
wind.  The  doors  of  the  mosques  are 
closed,  and  outside,  in  the  early  morn 
ing,  groups  of  natives  are  huddled  over 
charcoal  pans.  The  winter  is  creeping 
on  apace,  and  I  must  be  gone.  Besides, 
they  are  waiting  for  me  at  Florian's  on 
the  Piazza  in  my  beloved  Venice  ;  those 
scoffers  with  their  cerise  and  Chianti 
and  grandi  of  Munich  beer.  Waiting, 
not  to  mock,  but  to  kotow,  to  bend  the 
ear  and  genuflect,  now  that  my  port 
folio  is  bursting,  and  to  say,  "  Come,  let 
us  see  your  stuff ! "  and  "  How  the  devil 
did  you  get  away  with  so  much  ? " 

So  one  morning  I  tell  Isaac  to  pack 
my  trap,  and  this  time  to  slip  it  inside 
its  leather  traveling-case,  and  to  get  me 

72 


a  "  hamal,"  a  human  burro — an  Arme-  Under  the 
nian,  perhaps — who  will  toss  my  trunk,  Mmarefs 
with  the  extra  canvases  now  all  filled, 
upon   his   back,   and   never   break   trot 
until  he  dumps  it  at  the  station   two 
miles  away. 

I  instantly  detect,  in  spite  of  our 
close  intimacy,  an  expression  of  relief 
wrinkling  Mr.  Yapouly's  tobacco-colored 
countenance.  He  sighs  his  regrets,  but 
with  a  lightness  that  shows  his  heart  is 
not  in  them.  He  has  been  but  a  "ha 
mal  "  himself,  he  thinks,  lugging  the  trap 
about  in  the  heat,  and  sitting  for  hours 
doing  nothing  —  absolutely  nothing. 
And  I  have  bought  so  little  in  the  ba 
zaars,  and  his  commissions  are  so  small. 
But  then,  as  he  reflects,  is  he  not  the 
dragoman  of  dragomans,  and  might  not 
future  wayfarers  be  my  intimate  friends 
and  his  special  prey?  So  he  becomes 
doubly  solicitous  as  the  time  draws  near. 
Would  effendi  allow  him  to  place  a  few 
pounds  of  grapes  in  the  compartment, 
the  road  to  Philippopolis  is  so  dusty  and 
the  water  is  so  bad  ?  Had  not  the  um 
brella  better  go  above,  and  the  rugs  on 
the  other  seat  ? 

Last  of  all,  with  a  certain  tenderness 
that  he  knows  will  appeal  to  me,  where 
will  the  most  gracious  effendi  permit 
him  to  place  the  dear  old  trap,  my  com- 
73 


Under  the  panion  over  so  many  thousand  miles  of 
Minarets  travel  ?  At  my  feet  ?  No  ;  on  the  cush 
ion  beside  me ! 

The  guard  blows  his  whistle ;  the 
carriage  doors  are  locked.  Yapouly  — 
Dreco  Yapouly,  the  reformed  —  leans 
outside.  I  move  to  the  window  for  a 
parting  word.  After  all,  I  may  have 
misjudged  him.  He  starts  forward,  and 
presses  some  cards  into  my  hand. 

"  For  your  friends,  effendi,  when  they 
want  good  dragoman." 

I  turn  up  their  white  faces. 

They  are  clean  and  newly  printed, 
and  bear  this  inscription  :  - 

Isaac  Isaacs, 

Dragoman  and  Interpreter, 

Constantinople. 


IV.   AN  ESCAPADE  IN  COR 
DOVA 

|HE  first  day  he  contented 
himself  with  merely  glan 
cing  my  way  as  I  emerged 
from  the  door  of  my  lodg 
ing,  following  me  with  his 
eyes  until  I  disappeared 
around  the  corner  of  the  narrow  street 
that  leads  to  the  Moorish  mosque. 

Then  he  took  to  raising  his  hat  with 
quite  the  air  of  a  hidalgo,  standing  un 
covered  on  the  narrow  sidewalk  until  I 
passed,  expressing  by  this  simple  cour 
tesy  a  sort  of  silent  apology  for  occupy 
ing  my  premises. 

I  always  returned  his  salute,  wishing 
him  "good  day"  with  great  gusto,  add 
ing  occasionally  the  desire  that  the  good 
God  would  go  with  him  during  its  sultry 
hours.  Such  graceful  compliments  tend 
to  make  life  more  enjoyable  in  old 
Spanish  cities. 

But  he  never  addressed  a  word  to  me 
in  reply,  only  bowed  the  lower,  his  eyes 
fixed  upon  mine,  his  whole  manner 
suggestive  of  a  wistful  desire  for  closer 
acquaintanceship.  To  this  was  added  a 
75 


An  Esca-  certain  fearless  independence  which 
banished  at  once  all  thought  of  offering 
him  alms. 

I  began  to  wonder  who  this  very  cour 
teous,  very  silent,  and  very  friendly 
young  man  might  be.  I  began  also  to 
count  over  the  various  possible  and  im 
possible  motives  which  might  influence 
him  to  become  a  fixture  on  the  right 
of  my  doorstep  every  morning  when  I 
started  out  with  my  empty  sketch-trap. 

It  was  plainly  evident  that  he  be 
longed  to  the  better  class  of  Spaniards, 
and  not  to  "  the  people."  You  could 
see  that  in  his  finely  chiseled  features, 
and  in  the  way  his  clothes,  though 
slightly  the  worse  for  wear,  fitted  his 
graceful,  slender  figure.  You  saw  it 
also  in  his  winning  mouth,  full  of  white 
teeth,  shaded  by  a  dark  mustache  with 
just  enough  curl  to  suggest  the  Don 
Juan,  —  ready  for  fan,  slipper,  or  blade. 
And  yet  with  all  this  there  was  a  certain 
air  of  sadness  about  him  that  enlisted 
your  sympathy  at  sight. 

The  swarthy  landlady  who  peered 
through  the  lattice-blinds  had  never 
seen  him  before,  and  expressed,  rather 
pointedly,  I  thought,  the  hope  that  she 
never  would  again.  The  picador  who 
during  the  bull-fights  occupied  a  room 
on  the  floor  above  mine  charged  down 

76 


upon  him  very  much  as  he  would  on  a  An 
wounded  bull,  and  returned  to  me,  wait- 
ing  behind  the  half-open  door,  with  a 
shrug  of  his  broad  shoulders,  a  lifting  of 
his  eyebrows,  and  the  single  word, 
"  Nada ! "  ("  Good-for-nothing  "). 

Still  the  silent  young  man  continued 
to  occupy  my  sidewalk,  to  bow  with 
his  hat  to  the  ground,  and  to  follow  me 
with  his  eyes  around  the  corner  of  the 
narrow  street  that  led  to  the  Moorish 
mosque. 

Then  a  break  occurred  in  the  daily 
programme.  I  had  forgotten  my  brush- 
case,  and  ran  back  into  the  house,  leav 
ing  my  white  umbrella  and  trap  on  the 
doorstep.  When  I  emerged  again  into 
the  blinding  sunlight  they  had  disap 
peared.  I  instinctively  sought  out  my 
silent  young  man.  He  was  standing  in 
his  customary  place,  hat  off,  my  trap  in 
one  hand,  —  the  umbrella  under  his 
arm. 

"  My  friend,  you  have  my  trap." 

"Yes,  senor." 

"Why?" 

"  It  is  too  heavy  for  the  painter.  Let 
me  carry  it." 

His  voice  was  so  gentle,  his  face  so 
honest,  his  manner  so  courteous,  his  de 
sire  to  serve  me  so  apparent,  that  I  sur 
rendered  the  brush-case  at  once ;  had  it 
77 


An  Esca-  been  filled  with  doubloons  I  would  have 
done  the  same. 

"  What  is  your  name  ?  " 

"  Manuel." 

"  Why  are  you  always  here  ?  " 

"To  wait  upon  you." 

"  For  what  ? " 

"  To  keep  from  starving." 

"  Have  you  had  any  breakfast?" 

"  No ;  nor  supper." 

Below  the  mosque  there  runs  a 
crooked  street  lined  with  balconies 
hooded  with  awnings  shading  tropical 
plants,  and  now  and  then  a  pretty  se- 
norita.  At  the  end  of  this  street  is 
an  arcade  flanking  the  old  bull-ring. 
Through  one  of  its  arches  you  enter 
the  best  cafe"  in  Cordova. 

To  see  a  hungry  man  eat  has  always 
been  to  me  one  of  the  most  delightful 
of  all  the  expositions  of  the  laws  of 
want  and  supply ;  to  assist  in  equal 
izing  these  laws  the  most  exquisite  of 
pleasures.  I  exhausted  all  my  resources 
on  Manuel. 

He  had  a  cup  of  coffee  as  big  as  a 
soup-bowl.  He  had  an  omelet  crammed 
full  of  garlic.  He  had  a  pile  of  waffles 
smothered  in  sugar.  He  had  chicken 
livers  broiled  in  peppers  and  little  round 
radishes,  and  a  yard  of  bread,  and,  last 
of  all,  a  flagon  of  San  Vicente.  All 

78 


these  he  ate  and  drank  with  the  air  An 
and  manners  of  a  gentleman,  smoking  a 
cigarette,  as  is  the  custom,  throughout 
the  entire  repast,  and  talking  to  me  of 
his  life,  —  his  people  at  home,  his  year 
at  the  military  school  at  Toledo,  of  the 
unfortunate  scrape  which  ended  in  his 
dismissal,  of  the  anger  of  his  father,  of 
the  beauty  and  devotion  of  the  girl  who 
caused  it  all,  and  of  his  coming  to  Cor 
dova  to  be  near  her.  Who  does  not 
recollect  his  own  shortcomings  in  the 
hot,  foolish  days  of  his  youth  ?  I  could 
see  it  all ;  hardly  twenty,  straight  as  an 
arrow,  lithe  as  a  whip,  eyes  coals  of  fire, 
cheeks  like  a  rose,  and  his  veins  packed 
full  of  blood  at  fever-heat. 

He  had  watched  me  painting  in  the 
plaza,  and  had  followed  me  to  my  lodg 
ings,  hoping  I  would  employ  him  to  carry 
my  trap,  but  had  been  too  timid  to  ask 
for  it  until  chance  threw  it  in  his  way. 
He  would  be  glad  to  carry  it  now  all  day 
to  pay  for  his  breakfast. 

Manuel  was  a  prize.  He  would  sup 
ply  the  only  thing  I  lacked  in  this  most 
charming  of  Spanish  cities,  —  a  boon 
companion  with  nothing  to  do.  I  made 
a  bargain  with  him  on  the  spot,  —  so 
many  pesetas  per  week,  with  three  meals 
a  day,  he  to  occupy  the  other  side  of 
the  table. 
79 


Ait  Esca-  It  was  delightful  to  see  him  when  the 
^Cordova  terms  were  concluded.  His  face  lighted 
up,  and  his  big  brown  eyes  danced. 
Now  he  could  hold  up  his  head.  His 
father  perhaps  was  right,  but  what 
could  he  do  ?  Florita  was  so  lovely  ! 
Some  day  I  should  see  her  ;  but  not 
now  ;  I  would  not  understand.  His  fa 
ther  by  and  by  would  relent  and  send 
for  him.  Then  he  would  take  my  hand 
and  place  it  in  his  father's  and  say, 
"Here  is  the  good  painter  who  saved 
my  life  and  Florita's." 

We  ransacked  Cordova  from  end  to 
end :  into  the  mosque  at  twilight,  sitting 
in  the  shadows  of  the  forest  of  marble 
columns  stretching  away  on  every  side  ; 
up  into  the  tower,  where  the  pigeons 
roost ;  across  the  old  Roman  bridge  ; 
along  the  dusty  highways  on  the  out 
skirts  of  the  old  city  crowded  with  mar 
ket  people ;  through  the  streets  at  night, 
listening  to  the  tinkling  of  guitars  and 
watching  the  muffled  figures  under  the 
balconies,  and  the  half-opened  lattices 
with  the  little  hands  waving  handker 
chiefs  or  dropping  roses  ;  everywhere 
and  anywhere  ;  in  every  nook  and  crack 
and  cranny  of  this  once  famous  home  of 
the  hidalgo,  the  cavalier,  and  the  ina 
morata  with  the  eyes  of  a  gazelle  and 
the  heart  of  fire. 

80 


Manuel  loved  it  all.  He  loved,  too, 
strange  to  say,  all  things  quaint  and  odd 
and  old,  and  in  his  enthusiasm  had  rum 
maged  every  sacristy  and  priest's  house 
for  me  in  search  of  such  treasures.  In 
deed,  there  was  hardly  a  purchasable 
vestment  or  bit  of  embroidery  in  the 
city  that  he  had  not  bargained  for,  and 
my  lodgings  gave  daily  evidence  of  his 
success.  One  morning  he  came  dan 
cing  in,  bubbling  over  with  delight,  and 
swinging  around  his  head  a  piece  of  bro 
cade  that  would  have  made  the  mouth 
of  an  antiquary  water.  This  he  gravely 
informed  me  had  once  belonged  to  the 
figure  of  the  good  saint,  the  Santa  Te 
resa,  who  had  worn  it  for  some  hundreds 
of  years,  and  who  had  parted  with  it  the 
night  before  for  ten  pesetas.  The  sa 
cristan  who  acted  as  her  agent  had  re 
placed  the  exquisite  relic  with  some  new, 
cheap  lace,  explaining  that  it  was  the 
good  saint's  feast-day,  and  he  was  there 
fore  especially  desirous  of  presenting 
her  properly  to  her  devout  admirers. 

One  subject,  however,  by  common 
silent  consent  was  tabooed,  —  the  where 
abouts  of  the  sweetheart  who  had  made 
him  an  exile.  I  knew  that  she  was 
young,  graceful  as  a  doe,  seductive  as  a 
houri,  and  beautiful  beyond  compare. 
I  knew  that  she  loved  Manuel  wildly, 
81 


AH  Esca-  that  he  idolized  her,  and  would  starve 
ratner  than  desert  her.  I  knew  also 
that  she  lived  within  a  stone's-throw  of 
the  cafe  ;  for  Manuel  would  leave  me  at 
breakfast  to  kiss  her  good-morning,  and 
at  midday  to  kiss  her  again,  and  at  sun 
down  to  kiss  her  once  more  good-night, 
and  would  return  each  time  within  ten 
minutes.  I  knew  also,  of  course,  that 
her  name  was  Florita.  All  this  the 
young  fellow  told  me  over  and  over 
again,  with  his  face  flushed  and  his  eyes 
aflame  ;  but  I  knew  nothing  more. 

One  night  of  each  week  was  always 
Manuel's.  Any  part  of  any  other  night, 
or  all  of  it,  for  that  matter,  was  mine, 
and  he  was  at  my  service  for  sight-see 
ing  or  prowling ;  but  Saturday  was 
Florita's. 

Except  on  festival  nights,  Saturday, 
of  all  nights  in  the  week,  is  the  gayest 
in  all  the  Spanish  cities.  Then  the 
cafe's  are  in  full  blast,  filled  not  only 
with  the  city  people,  but  with  the  coun 
try  folk  who  come  to  market  on  that 
day.  These  cafe's  have  raised  platforms, 
are  edged  by  a  row  of  footlights,  and 
hold  half  a  dozen  chairs  seating  as  many 
male  and  female  dancers.  Here  you 
see  on  gala  nights  the  most  bewitching 
of  all  the  sights  of  Spain, —  the  Spanish 
dancers. 

82 


What  music  is  to  the  Italian,  dancing  An  Esca- 
is  to  the  Spaniard.  Float  along  through 
any  of  the  canals  of  Venice  and  listen  : 
everybody  is  singing.  The  woman  in 
the  window  of  the  wine-shop  over  the 
way  is  humming  an  air  from  Trovatore. 
The  idler  on  the  quay  joins  in  the 
melody,  and  in  five  minutes  more  the 
whole  waterway  is  ringing  with  its  sub 
lime  harmony.  Turn  out  into  the  Grand 
Canal  and  so  on  into  the  Lido.  The 
boats  from  Chioggia,  fish-laden,  are  drift 
ing  up  to  the  marble  front  of  the  Public 
Garden,  and  the  air  is  filled  with  the 
pathos  of  some  refrain  a  hundred  years 
old.  It  is  the  language  of  the  people ; 
they  think,  talk,  vibrate  in  music. 

In  Spain  the  outlet  is  through  the 
toes,  and  not  only  through  the  toes,  but 
the  feet,  the  ankles,  legs,  up  and  through 
the  spinal  column,  out  along  the  arms 
to  the  very  finger-tips,  every  nerve,  tis 
sue,  muscle,  and  drop  of  blood  in  their 
swinging,  pulsating  bodies  tingling  to 
the  rhythm  of  the  dance.  Under  the 
influence  of  this  magic  spell  a  man  with 
one  eye  and  a  crooked  leg,  head  bound 
with  a  red  handkerchief,  jacket  and 
waistcoat  off,  will  transform  himself 
into  an  embodiment  of  grace  and  ex 
pression.  He  will  give  you  whole  col 
umns  of  description  with  his  legs, 

83 


An  Esca-    avenge   the   forlorn    heroine    with    the 

sma11  of  his  back>  and.  deal  death.  and 
destruction  to  the  villain  with  a  twist  of 

his  head.  It  is  the  condensation  of  the 
opera,  the  drama,  the  pantomime,  and 
the  story-teller.  Pictures,  harmonies, 
books,  the  platform,  and  the  footlights 
have  their  own  "well-worn  roads  to  your 
brain  ;  this  language  of  the  toes  ploughs 
a  furrow  of  its  own. 

On  this  particular  Saturday  night 
Manuel  had  taken  himself  off  as  usual, 
and  I  was  left  to  follow  my  own  free 
will  alone.  So  I  strolled  into  the  gar 
den  of  the  mosque,  sat  me  down  on  one 
of  the  stone  seats  under  the  orange- 
trees,  and  watched  the  women  fill  their 
water-jars  at  the  old  Moorish  well,  lis 
tening  meanwhile  to  the  chatter  of  their 
gossip.  When  it  grew  quite  dark,  I 
passed  out  through  the  Puerta  del  Per- 
don,  turned  to  the  right,  and  wandered 
on  aimlessly  down  a  narrow  street  lead 
ing  to  the  river.  Soon  I  heard  the  click 
of  castanets  and  the  thrum  of  guitars. 
There  was  a  dance  somewhere.  Push 
ing  aside  a  swinging  door,  I  entered  a 
small  cafe". 

The  room  was  low-ceiled,  apparently 
without  windows,  and  the  air  stifling. 
The  customary  stage  occupied  one  cor 
ner  of  the  interior,  which  was  crowded 


to  the  very  walls  with  water  -  carriers,  An 
cargadors,  gypsies,  hucksters,  and  the 
young  bloods  of  the  town.  They  were 
cheering  wildly  a  black -eyed  senorita 
who  had  just  finished  her  dance,  and 
who  was  again  at  the  footlights  bowing 
her  acknowledgments.  She  made  a 
pretty  picture  in  her  short  yellow  skirts 
trimmed  with  black,  her  high  comb,  and 
her  lace  mantilla,  her  bare  arms  waving 
gracefully.  I  found  a  seat  near  the  door, 
called  for  a  bottle  of  San  Vicente,  and 
lighted  a  cigarette.  At  the  adjoining 
table  sat  a  group  of  young  fellows  drink 
ing  aguardiente.  It  is  a  villainous  li 
quor,  and  more  than  a  thimbleful  sets  a 
man's  brain  on  fire.  They  were  measur 
ing  theirs  in  tumblers.  When  at  a  sec 
ond  recall  the  girl  again  refused  to  dance, 
the  manager  explaining  that  she  was 
very  tired,  the  young  caballeros  began 
pounding  the  table  with  their  glasses, 
shouting  out  in  angry  tones,  "  La  senor 
ita  !  la  senorita !  "  When  for  the  third 
time  the  young  girl  advanced  to  the  plat 
form's  edge  and  bowed  her  regrets,  one 
of  the  group  sprang  forward,  leaped  upon 
a  table,  and  with  an  oath  dashed  the  con 
tents  of  his  glass  over  her  bare  shoul 
ders.  A  frightened  shriek  cut  the  air, 
and  the  next  instant  a  heavy  carafe  filled 
with  wine  grazed  my  head,  struck  the 
85 


AH  Esca-  ruffian  full  in  the  face,  and  tumbled  him 
headlong  to  the  floor. 

Instantly  the  place  was  in  an  uproar. 
Half  a  dozen  men,  one  waving  an  ugly 
knife,  sprang  past  me,  made  a  rush  for 
the  table  in  my  rear,  and  threw  them 
selves  upon  a  young  fellow  who  had 
thrown  the  carafe,  and  who  stood  with  his 
back  to  me  swinging  its  mate  over  his 
head  like  a  flail.  Then  came  a  crash,  an 
other  Spaniard  sprawled  on  the  floor,  and 
a  flying  figure  dashed  by  and  bounded 
over  the  footlights.  As  he  plunged 
through  the  curtain  in  the  rear  I  caught 
sight  of  his  face.  It  was  Manuel ! 

Grasping  the  situation,  I  sprang 
through  the  door  and  reached  the  side 
walk  just  as  the  police  forced  their  way 
past  me  into  the  scattering  throng.  A 
few  sharp  orders,  a  crash  of  breaking 
glass,  a  rattling  of  carbines  on  the  floor, 
and  the  tumult  was  over. 

Humiliated  at  Manuel's  deception, 
and  yet  anxious  for  his  safety,  I  hid  my 
self  in  the  shadow  near  a  street  lamp, 
with  my  eye  on  the  swinging  door,  and 
waited.  The  first  man  thrust  out  was 
the  ruffian  who  had  emptied  his  glass 
over  the  dancer.  His  arms  were  pin 
ioned  behind  his  back,  his  head  still 
bloody  from  the  effects  of  Manuel's  ca 
rafe.  Then  came  a  villainous-looking 

86 


cut-throat  with  a  gash  across  his  cheek,  An 
followed  by  three  others,  one  of  whom 
was  the  manager. 

The  mob  surrounded  the  group,  the 
prisoners  in  front.  I  crouched  close  un 
til  they  disappeared  in  a  body  up  the 
street,  then  crossed  over,  and  swung 
back  the  door.  The  place  was  empty. 
A  man  in  his  shirt-sleeves  was  putting 
out  the  lights. 

"  There  has  been  a  row  ?  "  I  said. 

"  Unquestionably." 

"  And  some  arrests  ? " 

"Yes,  sefior." 

"  Did  they  get  them  all  ? " 

"  All  but  one." 

"Where  is  he?" 

The  man  stopped,  grinned  the  width 
of  his  face,  and,  thrusting  up  his  thumb, 
waved  it  meaningly  over  his  left  shoul 
der. 

Manuel  had  escaped ! 

For  half  the  night  I  brooded  over  the 
unfaithfulness  of  human  nature.  Here 
was  my  hero  telling  lies  to  me  about  his 
Florita,  spending  his  Saturday  nights  in 
a  low  cafe  engaged  in  vulgar  brawls, 
and  all  over  a  dancer.  I  began  to  con 
sider  and  doubt.  Was  there  any  such 
fair  creature  at  all  as  Florita  ?  Was 
there  any  implacable  father  ?  Had  Man 
uel  ever  been  a  student  ?  Was  it  not  all 

8; 


An  Esca-  a  prearranged  scheme  to  bleed  me  day 
bv  day  and»  awaiting  a  chance,  rob  me, 
or  worse  ?  A  man  who  could  escape  un 
hurt,  surrounded  as  he  had  been,  was  no 
ordinary  man.  Perhaps  he  was  simply 
a  decoy  for  one  of  the  numerous  bands 
of  brigands  still  infesting  the  moun 
tains  ;  and  I  remembered  with  a  shud 
der  the  story  about  the  forefinger  of  the 
Englishman  forwarded  to  his  friends  in 
a  paper  box  as  a  sort  of  sight  draft  on 
his  entire  bank  account.  I  began  to 
bless  myself  that  mere  accident  had 
warned  me  in  time.  I  would  pick  up 
no  more  impecunious  tramps,  with  my 
heart  and  pocketbook  wide  open. 

When  the  day  broke,  and  the  cheery 
sun  that  Manuel  always  loved  streamed 
in  my  windows,  the  situation  seemed  to 
improve.  I  thought  of  his  open,  honest 
face,  of  his  extreme  kindness  and  grati 
tude,  of  the  many  delightful  hours  we 
had  spent  together.  Perhaps,  after  all, 
it  was  not  Manuel.  I  saw  his  face  only 
for  a  moment,  and  these  Spaniards  are 
so  much  alike,  all  so  dark  and  swarthy. 
He  would  surely  come  in  an  hour,  and 
we  would  have  our  coffee  together.  I 
dragged  a  chair  out  on  the  balcony  and 
sat  down,  watching  anxiously  the  turn 
of  the  street  where  I  had  so  often 
caught  sight  of  him  waving  his  hand. 

88 


At  eight  o'clock  I  gave  him  up.  It 
was  true ;  the  face  was  Manuel's,  and 
he  dared  not  show  himself  now  for  fear 
of  arrest.  Then  a  new  thought  cheered 
me.  Perhaps  he  was  waiting  at  the  cafe*, 
or,  it  being  Sunday,  was  late,  and  I  would 
meet  him  on  the  way.  How  could  I  have 
misjudged  him  so.  Filled  with  these 
thoughts  I  ran  downstairs  into  the  sun 
light  and  stopped  at  the  corner  near  the 
church,  scanning  the  street  up  and  down. 
There  was  no  one  I  knew  except  the  old 
bareheaded  beggar  with  the  withered 
arm.  Manuel  often  gave  him  alms.  He 
bowed  as  I  passed,  stood  up,  and  put  on 
his  hat. 

Near  the  cafe*  at  the  bottom  of  the 
hill  stands  a  half-ruined  archway.  It 
can  be  reached  by  two  streets  running 
parallel  and  within  a  stone's-throw  of 
each  other.  As  I  passed  under  this 
arch,  the  beggar,  to  my  astonishment, 
started  up  as  if  from  the  ground.  He 
had  followed  me. 

"You  are  the  painter,  seiior  ?  " 

«  Yes." 

"And  Manuel's  friend?" 

"  Of  course ;  where  is  he  ? " 

He  glanced  cautiously  about,  drew  me 
under  the  shadow  of  the  wall,  and  took 
a  scrap  of  paper  from  inside  the  band  of 
his  hat. 


An  Esca-        it  bore  this  inscription  :  — 

"l  am  in  trouble;  follow  the  beg 
gar." 

The  old  man  looked  at  me  fixedly, 
turned  sharply,  and  retraced  his  steps 
through  the  arch.  My  decision  was  in 
stantaneous  ;  I  would  find  Manuel  at  all 
hazards. 

The  way  led  across  the  plaza  of  the 
bull-ring,  through  the  fruit -market,  up 
the  hill  past  the  little  mosque,  —  now  the 
church  of  Santa  Maria,  the  one  with 
the  red  marble  altar,  —  and  so  on  out 
into  the  suburbs  of  the  city,  the  beggar 
keeping  straight  ahead  and  never  look 
ing  behind.  At  the  end  of  a  narrow 
lane  dividing  two  rows  of  old  Moor 
ish  houses  the  mendicant  tarried  long 
enough  for  me  to  come  quite  near, 
glanced  at  me  meaningly,  and  then  dis 
appeared  in  a  crack  in  the  wall.  I  fol 
lowed,  and  found  myself  in  a  square  patio, 
overgrown  with  weeds,  half  choked  by 
the  ruins  of  a  fountain,  and  surrounded 
by  a  balcony  supported  by  marble  col 
umns.  This  balcony  was  reached  by  a 
stone  staircase.  The  beggar  crossed  the 
overgrown  tangle,  mounted  the  steps, 
swung  back  a  heavy  green  door  with 
Moorish  hinges,  and  waited  for  me  to 
pass  in. 

I  drew  back.  The  folly,  if  not  the 

90 


danger,  of  the  whole  proceeding  began 
to  dawn  upon  me. 

"  I  will  go  no  farther.  Where  is  the 
man  who  sent  you  ? " 

The  beggar  placed  his  ringers  to  his 
lips  and  pointed  behind  him. 

At  the  same  instant  a  blind  opened 
cautiously  on  the  floor  above,  and  Man 
uel's  face,  pale  as  a  ghost,  peered 
through  the  slats.  The  beggar  entered, 
closed  the  heavy  door  carefully,  felt  his 
way  along  a  dark  corridor,  and  knocked 
twice.  A  shriveled  old  woman  with  a 
bent  back  thrust  out  her  head,  mum 
bled  something  to  the  beggar,  and  led 
me  to  an  opening  in  the  opposite  wall. 
Manuel  sprang  out  and  seized  my 
hand. 

"  I  knew  you  would  come.  Oh,  such 
a  scrape  !  The  police  searched  for  us 
half  the  night.  But  for  old  Bonta,  the 
beggar  here,  and  his  wife  we  would  have 
been  caught.  It  would  kill  my  father 
if  anything  should  happen  now.  See, 
here  is  his  letter  saying  we  can  come 
home !  Oh,  I  am  so  grateful  to  you  ! 
You  see  it  was  this  way.  It  was  Flori- 
ta's  night,  and  I  "  — 

My  heart  turned  sick  within  me. 
Florita's  night !  If  the  poor  girl  only 
knew ! 

"  Don't   say  another  word,  Manuel ; 


AH  Esca-   you  are  in  a  scrape,  and  I  will  help  you 

out>  but  don>t  lie  about  it:  to  me  °.f  a11 
men.  If  you  love  the  dancer,  all  right. 

Breaking  a  carafe  over  a  fellow's  head 
in  a  cafe",  and  all  for  a  pair  of  ankles, 
may  be  "  — 

"  Lie  to  you,  senor !  "  said  Manuel, 
flushing  angrily,  and  with  a  certain  dig 
nity  I  had  never  seen  in  him  before  ;  "  I 
could  never  lie  to  you.  You  do  not 
know." 

"  I  do  know." 

"  Then  Bonta  has  told  you  ? "  and  he 
looked  towards  the  beggar. 

"  Bonta  has  not  opened  his  lips.  I 
saw  it  all  with  my  own  eyes,  and  you 
may  thank  your  lucky  stars  that  you 
were  not  sliced  full  of  holes.  What 
would  Florita  say  ?  " 

"  Florita  ?  Jesu,  I  see  ! "  said  Manuel, 
springing  forward,  pushing  open  the 
door,  and  calling  out :  — 

"  Florita  !  Are  you  there  ?  Come 
quick  !  " 

A  hurried  step  in  the  adjoining  room, 
and  a  young  girl  came  running  in. 

It  was  the  dancer ! 

"What  could  I  do,  sefior?  What 
would  you  do  if  your  own  wife  had  been 
so  insulted  ?  See  how  lovely  she  is  !  " 
And  he  kissed  her  on  both  cheeks. 

What  would  I  have  done  ?  What 

92 


would  you  have  done,  my  friend,  with 
that  startled  shriek  in  your  ears,  her 
great  eyes  wet  with  tears,  her  white 
arms  held  out  to  you  ? 

My  hair  is  not  quite  so  brown  as  it 
was,  and  the  blood  no  longer  surges 
through  my  veins.  I  am  cooler  and 
calmer,  and  even  phlegmatic  ;  and  yet 
had  Florita  been  mine,  I  would  have 
broken  a  carafe  over  every  head  in  Cor 
dova. 

While  he  was  calming  her  fears,  kiss 
ing  her  cheeks,  and  patting  her  hands, 
the  whole  story  came  out.  Day  after 
day  he  had  hoped  that  his  father  would 
relent.  One  word  from  him,  and  then 
I  need  never  have  known  how  the  dainty 
feet  of  his  pretty  young  wife  had  helped 
them  both  to  live. 

That  night,  a  painter,  with  a  pretty 
Spanish  cousin,  and  a  servant  carrying 
his  coat  and  trap,  occupied  a  first-class 
carriage  for  Toledo. 

The  painter  left  the  train  at  the  first 
station  out  of  Cordova,  shouldered  his 
trap  and  coat  himself,  and  took  the 
night  express  back  to  his  lonely  lodg 
ings.  The  servant  and  the  senorita 
went  on  alone. 

When  the  train  reached  Toledo,  an  old 
Spaniard  with  white  head  and  mustache 
pushed  his  way  through  the  crowd,  took 

93 


An  Esca-    the  servant  in  his  arms,  and  kissed  the 
Prettv  cousin  on  both  cheeks. 

Then  a  high-springed  old  coach  swal 
lowed  them  all  up. 


V.  LA  CANAL  DE  LA  VIGA 

begins  at  the  great  lakes, 
away  up  in  the  country 
among  the  flowers  and 
market  gardens,  winds  in 
and  out  of  the  low  hills 
and  hollows,  stopping  at 
the  various  Aztec  towns  with  the  un 
pronounceable  names.  Then  it  takes  a 
turn  into  the  little  holiday  village  of 
Santa  Anita  where  the  flower-crowned 
peons  dance  feast-days  and  Sundays, 
waters  the  edges  of  the  chinampas, — 
the  floating  gardens  of  the  ancients  over 
grown  with  weeds  and  anchored  by  neg 
lect, — flows  past  the  almost  deserted 
paseo  de  la  Viga,  holding  half-way  its 
length  the  dilapidated  bust  of  Guati- 
motzin,  and  so  on  down  to  the  City  of 
Mexico. 

All  kinds  of  water-craft  loaded  with 
all  kinds  of  merchandise  float  up  and 
down  its  windings  :  wood  boats  ;  market 
boats  ;  flower  boats  ;  canoes  filled  with 
Indians ;  flat-bottomed  barges  roofed 
over  with  a  rude  awning  amidships, — 
barbaric  gondolas,  crowded  with  merry 
makers  thrumming  guitars  and  clicking 
95 


if  Canal    castanets,  —  a  steady  stream  of  life,  with 
dela  Vtga  the  current  towards  the  city. 

Here  it  is  swallowed  up  like  many  an 
other  fresh  young  life  joyous  from  the 
green  fields.  Here  the  city  pounces 
upon  it  and  defiles  it.  Here  every  bit  of 
stray  refuse,  every  scrap  of  offal,  all  the 
filth,  all  the  dirt,  all  the  scrapings  and 
castaways  of  the  great  city  are  thrust 
into  its  pure  waters.  Even  the  narrow 
little  bridges  take  a  hand  in  the  villainy ; 
crowding  and  jostling  as  if  bent  on  chok 
ing  it  up  forever. 

Soon  it  reaches  the  slums,  the  very 
dregs  of  its  pollution ;  the  stables ;  the 
dyehouses  and  the  sewers ;  the  slaugh 
ter-houses,  where  the  brown -backed 
peons,  naked  to  the  waist,  lean  over 
rotting  logs  cleansing  the  reeking  hides 
fresh  from  the  shambles.  Every  indig 
nity  is  heaped  upon  it,  every  touch  be 
fouls  it. 

Still  it  struggles  on,  cringing  like  an 
outcast,  slinking  under  the  bridges, 
crouching  through  dark  waterways,  edg 
ing  along  rotting  embankments,  buoyed 
up  and  strengthened  by  the  thought  of 
the  bright  pure  waters  of  Lake  Texcoco 
glistening  in  the  sunlight  a  few  miles 
away. 

You  follow  down,  in  and  out,  crossing 
and  recrossing  the  little  bridges,  hug- 

96 


ging  the  shadows  of  the  tall  pink  and  La  Canal 
yellow  washed  buildings,  —  their  balco- 
nies  trellised  with  flowers  and  hooded 
with  awnings,  —  until  you  come  to  where 
the  water  widens  out,  washing  a  broad 
flight  of  stone  steps  that  lead  up  to  four 
great  columns  supporting  the  entabla 
ture  and  roof  of  an  imposing  structure 
quite  classic  in  its  design.  This  is  the 
Mercaclo  del  Pulquerria. 

Cross  the  little  bridge  above,  pick 
your  way  through  the  crowds  of  venders 
in  the  street,  push  through  the  babel  of 
buyers  and  sellers  on  the  floor  of  the 
market,  and  walk  out  into  the  blinding 
sunlight  on  the  very  same  stone  steps 
you  saw  from  across  the  canal.  A  sight 
greets  you  that  exists  only  in  one  spot 
the  world  over. 

Beneath,  in  a  solid  pack,  their  sides 
touching,  floats  a  great  fleet  of  canoes 
loaded  to  the  water's  edge  with  masses 
of  flowers,  heaps  of  vegetables,  piles 
upon  piles  of  fruit :  —  one  solid  carpet  of 
blue  larkspur,  bright  marigolds  and  car 
nations,  poppies,  roses,  radishes,  lettuce, 
tomatoes,  melons,  grapes,  and  figs. 

You  forget  the  ninety  and  nine  smells, 
the  seething,  bubbling  hides,  the  ooze 
and  slime  of  the  sodden  logs,  and  revel 
only  in  the  sunlight,  the  palms  waving 
over  the  low  walls,  the  blazing,  dazzling 
97 


La  Catial   white  of  the  great  building  opposite,  the 
deep  blue  of  the  sky  overhead,  and  the 

superb  carpet  of  color  dotted  with  fig 
ures  beneath. 

Stand  behind  one  of  the  great  pillars 
within  a  few  feet  of  the  nearest  boat. 
Its  bow  is  a  mass  of  blue  larkspur  and 
ragged  sailors.  Amidships  is  a  great 
square  of  carnations,  intermingled  with 
every  variety  of  reds  and  yellows.  In 
the  stern  stands  a  peon  girl,  her  head 
covered  by  a  wide-peaked  sombrero  of 
yellow  straw,  throwing  the  richly  colored 
face  in  shadow. 

The  sunlight  falls  on  her  bare  arms 
and  back,  and  glistens  on  the  white 
chemise,  half  concealing  the  full  outlines 
of  her  rounded  figure.  About  her  hips 
is  folded  a  square,  blue  cotton  blanket, 
girded  by  a  red  sash.  In  her  ears  are 
large  silver  hoops.  An  armlet  of  copper 
binds  one  arm  near  the  shoulder. 

She  stands  erect,  steadying  herself,  — 
one  hand  on  the  oar,  which  in  turn 
steadies  the  boat,  the  other  filled  with 
fruit  and  flowers.  These  she  lifts  up 
to  the  clamoring  crowd,  tossing  them 
now  a  bunch  of  radishes,  now  a  cluster  of 
carnations  in  exchange  for  their  copper 
coins,  which  she  catches  dexterously  in 
mid-air. 

If  you  think  grace  died  with  the 

98 


Greeks,  watch  this  girl  for  a  moment.  La  Canal 
She  is  barely  sixteen ;  her  eyes  are  dark  dela 
and  luminous  ;  her  hair  a  purple  black, 
tied  in  two  great  braids  down  her  back ; 
her  teeth  white  as  milk  ;  her  neck,  arms, 
and  bust  exquisitely  modeled ;  her  fin 
gers  small  and  tapering,  and  her  feet 
tiny  enough  to  dance  on  Persian  carpets. 
She  has  a  skin  that  is  not  the  red  of  the 
Indian,  nor  brown,  nor  quadroon ;  it  is 
light  though  transparent  copper. 

Every  movement  is  grace  itself.  That 
she  comes  of  an  indolent  race  only  adds 
to  her  beauty.  Minutes  at  a  time  she 
keeps  perfectly  still,  even  to  her  eyelids. 
Then  she  shifts  the  oar,  throws  her 
weight  on  the  other  hip,  her  beautiful 
bare  arms  fall  to  her  side,  and  she  is  more 
entrancing  than  ever.  She  is  absolutely 
unconscious  of  your  admiration.  She 
has  but  one  thought  in  life,  —  to  sell  her 
cargo  before  the  hot  sun  shall  shrivel  it 
up. 

Suddenly,  above  the  din  of  the  traffic, 
you  hear  a  sharp  cry.  The  girl  starts 
forward,  drops  the  oar  and  falls  on  her 
knees  in  the  boat,  among  the  greens  and 
flowers.  When  she  rises  she  has  her 
little  bare,  bronze  baby  in  her  arms. 

At  the  same  instant,  from  underneath, 
there  crawls  out  a  shaggy-headed  peon 
rubbing  his  eyes.  He  has  been  sound 
99 


La  Canal   asleep.     Long   before   the   gray  dawn, 

is°  and   many  weary  miles  from   here,  he 

had   poled   the   canoe  alone ;   past   the 

sleeping    villages    and    the   chinampas, 

while  the  mother  and  child  rested. 

The  crowd  thins  out.  One  by  one 
the  boats  drop  off,  and  drift  up  or  down. 
Soon  the  bronze  goddess  and  her  baby 
and  her  shaggy-headed  husband  float  by 
with  an  empty  boat. 

You  look  after  them  long  and  mus 
ingly,  until  they  are  lost  in  the  throng. 
Then,  somehow,  you  feel  a  slight  pain, 
as  of  a  personal  loss.  The  place  is  dif 
ferent,  the  charm  has  fled. 

You  begin  to  note  the  foul  water 
strewn  with  waste  leaves,  decayed  fruit, 
and  the  offal  of  the  market.  You  be 
come  aware  of  the  stench  and  the  reek 
ing  filth.  The  white  wall  glows  like  a 
furnace, — the  sky  is  molten  brass, — the 
palms  hang  limp.  You  turn  in  disgust 
and  enter  the  stifling  market,  where 
barelegged  peons  are  drenching  the  foul 
stone  flags  with  fouler  water  from  the 
canal,  and  so  on  through  and  out  into 
the  narrow  street,  dodging  under  the 
awnings,  and  skirting  close  to  the  strip 
of  a  black  shadow  stenciled  on  the  side 
walk. 

Soon  you  reach  your  garden,  and  the 
cool  of  your  quiet  siesta. 

100 


Over  your  coffee  you  have   but   one  La  Canal 
memory,  —  the    grand    figure    of  that  de  la  Viga 
daughter  of  Montezuma,  radiant  in  the 
sunlight,  her  hands  filled  with  flowers. 


VI.    A    BULGARIAN    OPERA 
BOUFFE 

IE  was  a  small  waiter  with  a 
slightly  bald  head,  and  of 
no  very  pronounced  na 
tionality,  and  he  spoke  the 
fag-ends  of  five  or  six  lan 
guages,  one  of  which,  I 
was  delighted  to  find,  was  my  own. 

These  fragments  he  hurled  continu 
ously  at  other  waiters  of  more  pro 
nounced  nationalities  —  French,  Ger 
man,  Hungarian,  and  the  like  —  who 
were  serving  little  groups  of  Turks, 
Russians,  and  Bulgarians  scattered 
about  the  coffee-room, 

Directly  opposite  me  hung  a  half- 
length  portrait  of  a  broad-shouldered 
young  soldier  bristling  with  decorations, 
his  firmly  set  features  surmounted  by  a 
military  cap. 

"  Is  that  a  portrait  of  the  prince  ? "  I 
asked. 

The  man  of  many  tongues  stopped, 
looked  at  the  chromo  for  an  instant  as 
though  trying  to  remember  to  which 
one  of  the  late  princes  I  had  referred, 
and  then  said  blandly  :  — 

1 02 


"  Yes,  monsieur ;   the  present   king ;  A 
Prince  Ferdinand."  ri 

"  Is  he  now  in  Sofia  ?  " 

The  slightly  bald  attendant  elevated 
his  eyebrows  with  a  look  of  profound 
astonishment. 

"  Here  ?     No,  monsieur." 

"  He  has  really  run  away,  then  ?  " 

The  eyebrows  fell,  and  a  short,  pudgy 
finger  was  laid  warningly  against  his 
lips. 

"Monsieur,  nobody  runs  in  Bulgaria. 
His  majesty  is  believed  to  be  in  the 
monastery  at  Ryllo." 

"  Yes,  so  they  tell  me.  But  will  he 
ever  come  back  here  ? " 

The  man  stopped,  gazed  about  him 
furtively,  refilled  my  glass,  bending  so 
low  that  his  lips  almost  touched  my  ear, 
and  then  whispered,  with  a  half-laugh  : 

"  God  knows." 

I  was  not  surprised.  All  Europe  at 
that  precise  moment  was  straining  its 
ears  to  catch  a  more  definite  answer. 
The  conundrum  was  still  going  the 
rounds  of  the  diplomats,  and  the  suc 
cessful  guesser  was  yet  to  be  heard  from. 

All  that  was  positively  known  con 
cerning  his  imperial  highness  was  that 
several  weeks  prior  to  the  time  of  this 
writing  he  had  left  his  palace  at  Sofia, 
the  capital  of  Bulgaria, — within  mus- 
103 


A  Bulga-  ket-shot  of  where  I  sat,  —  and,  attended 
bv.  a  few  personal  friends,  had  taken  the 
midnight  express  to  Vienna.  From  Vi 
enna  he  had  gone  to  Carlsbad,  where 
for  several  consecutive  weeks  he  had 
subjected  his  royal  person  to  as  many 
indoor  baths  and  as  much  outdoor  ex 
ercise  as  would  entirely  eradicate  the 
traces  of  gout  and  other  princely  evils 
absorbed  by  his  kingship  during  his  few 
years'  stay  in  the  capital  of  the  Bulga 
rians. 

All  this  time  the  air  had  been  full  of 
the  rumor  of  his  abdication.  The  Rus 
sian  ambassador  at  the  court  of  Paris, 
Baron  Mohrenheim,  in  an  interview 
granted  to  the  Paris  correspondent  of  a 
St.  Petersburg  paper,  insisted  that  there 
was  no  doubt  that  Ferdinand  had  quit 
ted  Bulgaria  for  good,  "his  life  there 
being  in  constant  danger."  While  the 
Austrian  ambassador  at  Constantinople, 
Herr  von  Radowitz,  was  reported  to 
have  advised  the  Porte  to  postpone  tak 
ing  action  on  the  Bulgarian  Note  for  the 
present,  hinting  at  the  imminent  retire 
ment  of  the  reigning  prince,  and  a  con 
sequent  solution  of  impending  difficul 
ties  more  in  harmony  with  the  purport 
of  the  Berlin  Treaty. 

These  announcements  continued,  and 
with  such  persistency  that  the  Bulgarian 

104 


prime  minister,  M.  Stamboloff,  deemed 
it  necessary  to  telegraph  to  a  newspa- 
per  correspondent,  "  The  rumors  of  the 
prince's  intended  abdication  are  pure 
fabrications.'' 

More  emphatic  still  was  Ferdinand's 
own  manifesto,  issued  through  the  col 
umns  of  the  Carlsbad  "  Temps,"  to  the 
effect  that  "while  there  is  a  great  na 
tional  effervescence  going  on  at  this 
moment  in  Bulgaria,  the  Bulgarians  are, 
nevertheless,  free,  and  will  welcome  me 
back  with  rejoicings." 

It  was  while  this  political  "  efferves 
cence,"  as  the  prince  was  pleased  to  call 
it,  continued  that  the  royal  liver  grew 
torpid  enough  to  demand  a  change  of 
air.  This  torpidity  lasted,  in  fact,  long 
after  the  Carlsbad  doctors  had  pro 
nounced  the  diseased  organ  cured.  You 
will  remember  that  Talleyrand  tried  the 
same  experiment  with  similar  results 
nearly  a  century  before. 

Then  one  day  the  prince  turned  up 
serenely  on  the  slopes  of  the  mountains, 
dismounted  like  a  weary  knight,  and 
knocked  for  admission  at  the  monastery 
at  Ryllo. 


105 


A  Buigci-        Being  myself  a  wanderer  in  this  part 

ra  of  the  world>  wit.h  an  eXe  for  the  unex' 
pected  and  the  picturesque,  and  anxious 

to  learn  the  exact  situation  in  Bulgaria, 
I  had  hurried  on  from  Budapest,  and 
at  high  noon  on  a  broiling  August  day 
had  arrived  at  a  way  station  located  in 
the  midst  of  a  vast  sandy  plain.  This 
station  the  conductor  informed  me  was 
Sofia.  Following  my  traps  through  a 
narrow  door  guarded  by  a  couple  of  sol 
diers,  I  delivered  up  my  ticket  and  pass 
port,  crept  under  a  heap  of  dust  propped 
up  on  wheels  and  drawn  by  three  horses 
abreast  with  chair  -  backs  over  their 
names,  waited  until  a  Turk,  two  greasy 
Roumanians,  —  overcoated  in  sheep 
skins  wrong  side  out,  —  and  a  red-neck- 
tied  priest  had  squeezed  in  beside  me ; 
and  then  started  off  in  a  full  gallop  to 
a  town  two  miles  away.  Our  sudden 
exodus  obliterated  the  station  in  a  cloud 
of  dust,  through  which  the  Constanti 
nople  express  could  be  seen  slowly 
feeling  its  way. 

The  interview  with  the  waiter  occurred 
within  an  hour  of  my  arrival. 

The  same  afternoon  I  was  abroad  in 
the  streets  of  Sofia  armed  with  such  in- 

1 06 


formation  as  I  had  gathered  from  my  A  Buiga- 
obsequious  attendant. 

In  the  king's  absence  I  would  call 
upon  the  members  of  the  cabinet. 

It  did  not  take  me  many  hours  to 
discover  that  his  Excellency  M.  Stam- 
boloff,  Minister  President,  was  away  on 
a  visit,  presumably  at  Philippopolis ; 
that  the  Minister  of  Justice,  M.  Sala- 
bashoff,  had  resigned  a  short  time  be 
fore  ;  that  Doctor  Stransky,  Minister  of 
Foreign  Affairs,  had  followed  suit,  the 
portfolios  of  both  being  still  unassigned ; 
that  the  Minister  of  Finance  was  in 
Varna,  the  Minister  of  War,  Colonel 
Moutkourov,  in  Vienna.  In  fact,  that 
not  a  single  member  of  the  Bulgarian 
government  from  the  king  down  was 
to  be  found  at  the  capital.  The  Bul 
garian  government  had  apparently  ab 
sconded.  Not  a  member,  not  a  repre 
sentative,  was  to  be  found,  unless  a 
gimlet-eyed  man  of  about  forty,  with  a 
forbidding  countenance,  a  flat  military 
cap,  and  a  tight-fitting  white  surtout 
incrusted  with  gilt  buttons,  who  an 
swered  as  prefect  of  police,  might  be  so 
considered. 

I  ran  up  against  this  gentleman  be 
fore  I  quitted  the  palace  grounds.  He 
had  already  run  up  against  me  at  the 
station  on  my  arrival,  —  as  I  afterward 
107 


A  Buiga-    discovered,  —  and  had  entered  me  as  a 
susPicious  character  at  sight. 

In  five  minutes  he  had  bored  me  so 
full  of  questions  that  I  became  as  trans 
parent  as  my  passport,  which  he  held 
up  to  the  light  in  order  to  read  its  wa 
ter-mark.  Next  he  went  through  my 
sketch-book  page  by  page,  and  finally 
through  all  my  letters  until  he  came  to 
one  bearing  at  its  top  the  image  of  the 
American  eagle  and  at  its  bottom  the 
superscription  of  one  of  its  secretaries, 
answering  for  my  sobriety,  honesty,  and 
industry ;  whereupon  he  waved  me  to 
the  door  with  full  permission  to  roam 
and  sketch  at  my  will.  Then  he  put  a 
special  detective  on  my  track,  who  never 
took  his  eyes  from  me  during  any  one  of 
my  waking  hours. 

I  did  not  ask  this  potentate  whether 
the  prince  was  coming  back.  I  did  not 
consider  it  an  opportune  moment. 

Neither  did  I  discuss  with  him  the 
present  condition  of  Bulgaria,  there  be 
ing  nothing  in  the  cut  of  his  coat  —  nor 
of  his  eye,  for  that  matter — to  indicate 
his  present  political  views.  He  might 
have  been  an  adherent  of  the  prince,  or  a 
believer  in  Panitza,  or  a  minion  of  Stam- 
boloff,  or  he  might  have  been  so  evenly 
balanced  on  the  edge  of  events  as  to  be 
all  three  or  none. 

1 08 


Nor  did  I  explain  to  him  how  grieved  A 
I  was  that  his  present  lords  and  masters 
should  have  seen  fit  to  absent  them 
selves  just  at  the  precise  moment  when 
their  combined  presence  would  have 
been  so  agreeable  to  me.  I  had  really 
crossed  desert  wastes  to  study  their  com 
plicated  comedy,  and  now  all  the  princi 
pal  actors  were  out  of  town. 


A  rehearsal  of  the  preceding  acts  of 
this  play  may  possibly  lead  to  a  better 
understanding  of  the  drama  as  it  was 
then  being  developed  in  Bulgaria.  It 
is  not  heroic;  it  cannot  even  be  called 
romantic,  this  spectacle  in  which  three 
millions  of  souls  are  seen  hunting  about 
Europe  for  a  sovereign,  —  a  sort  of  still- 
hunt  resulting  in  the  capture  of  two 
kings  in  four  years,  with  hopes  of  bag 
ging  a  protector  or  a  president  before 
the  fifth  is  out. 

But  to  the  play  itself. 

At  present  in  Bulgaria  there  are,  first, 
the  Russophiles,  who,  as  Petko  Karave- 
loff  says,  "  pray  for  the  time  when  Bul 
garia  shall  march  into  Salonica,  while 
Russia  marches  into  Constantinople," 
and  who  believe  the  Czar  to  be  their 
natural  friend  and  ally,  with  the  only 
109 


hope  of  settled  peace  in  his  protector- 
ate-  Secondly,  the  loyal  oppositionists, 
headed  by  M.  Radoslavoff,  who  would 
support  the  prince  with  certain  conces 
sions,  but  who  detest  his  advisers.  And 
thirdly,  the  sympathizers  of  Major  Pa- 
nitza,  the  murdered  patriot,  who  was 
"  shot  "  —  so  ran  a  proclamation  a  week 
old,  patches  of  which  were  still  pointed 
out  to  me  decorating  the  walls  of  the 
king's  palace  — "  by  the  order  of  the 
bloodthirsty  Ferdinand,  the  scoundrel 
Stamboloff,  and  the  '  Vaurien '  Mout- 
kourov." 

This  young  officer,  Panitza,  —  a  de 
voted  adherent  of  Prince  Alexander,  — 
had  served  with  distinction  in  the  Ser 
vian  war,  having  led  one  of  the  famous 
charges  at  Slivnitza.  Believing  that  the 
only  salvation  for  his  country  lay  in  Rus 
sian  interference,  he  had  joined  hands 
with  a  Russian  spy,  Kolobkoff,  in  fo 
menting  discord  in  the  army.  Unluckily, 
his  own  letters,  carrying  unmistakable 
evidence  of  the  plot,  fell  into  the  hands 
of  Stamboloff  himself,  resulting  in  his 
immediate  arrest,  trial,  and  condemna 
tion  by  court-martial. 

It  is  greatly  to  the  credit  of  Prince 
Ferdinand  that  he  was  strongly  inclined 
to  spare  Panitza.  He  in  fact  held  out 
for  more  than  a  week  against  the  com- 

110 


bined  assaults  of  Stamboloff  and  his 
brother-in-law,  Moutkourov,  —  then  min- 
ister  of  war,  —  and  it  was  not  until  his 
prime  minister  threatened  the  resigna 
tion  of  the  entire  cabinet  that  he  finally 
yielded.  There  is  even  a  story  current 
that  when  this  threat  failed  Stamboloff 
followed  the  king  to  Lorn  Palanka  with 
the  death-warrant  in  his  hand,  and  that 
when  he  still  hesitated  that  implacable 
dictator  remarked  sententiously  :  — 

"  Sire,  Major  Panitza  dies  on  the  mor 
row.  If  you  continue  to  object,  there  is 
one  thing  we  can  always  do  for  your 
majesty,  —  we  can  always  buy  you  a 
first-class  ticket  to  Vienna." 

StambolofFs  plan  for  governing  had 
been  simple  and  to  the  point.  It  called 
for  five  millions  of  roubles  and  a  king. 
Who  this  king  might  be,  or  where  he 
should  hail  from,  was  a  matter  of  detail. 
Anybody  but  a  Russian  or  a  Turk 
would  do.  And  so  offers  were  made  in 
a  confidential  way  to  various  gentlemen 
who  thought  they  had  an  especial,  di 
vine  gift  for  reigning,  and  who  lacked 
the  opportunity  only  because  of  the  de 
pleted  condition  of  their  bank  accounts. 
At  last  a  fond  and  ambitious  mother 
and  an  obliging  son  with  an  almost  un 
limited  reserve  fund  —  unlimited  for  the 
ordinary  needs  of  life  —  took  the  bait. 
in 


A  Bulga-  It  was  not,  however,  a  harmonious 
familY  arrangement ;  for  it  was  well 
known  that  the  young  prince's  uncle, 
the  Duke  of  Saxe-Coburg,  did  what  he 
could  to  prevent  the  final  agreement ; 
he  being  an  older  and  wiser  diplomat, 
and  having  had  a  long  and  varied  expe 
rience  in  the  ups  and  downs  of  several 
see  -  saw  governments.  Among  other 
things,  the  duke  boldly  stated  that  it 
was  only  a  question  of  money  with  the 
Bulgarian  regents,  and  that  Ferdinand 
would  leave  the  throne  when  his  guldens 
were  gone,  as  had  Alexander,  to  whom 
the  Bulgarian  government  then  owed 
three  millions  of  francs. 

The  duke  was  right.  When  the  hour 
arrived,  there  were,  of  course,  cogent 
reasons  for  heavy  drafts  on  the  king's 
exchequer  :  —  the  army  was  to  be  re 
armed  and  clothed,  an  important  rail 
road  built,  and  a  thousand  and  one  im 
provements  made.  The  money  would 
be  returned. 

This  schedule  has  been  literally  car 
ried  out,  —  except  the  return  item,  —  if 
not  to  the  benefit  of  Bulgaria  herself, 
certainly  to  the  depletion  of  the  prince's 
bank  account. 

Among  the  most  seductive  of  these 
schemes  was  the  beautifying  of  the  cap 
ital.  Streets  were  to  be  opened,  and 

112 


trees  planted,  and  flowers  made  to  bloom.  A. 
I  recall  now  that  vast  band  of  stagnant  3S2f 
dust  leading  from  the  station  to  the 
town,  separated  from  its  surrounding 
monotony  by  sundry  depressions  and 
grades  indicated  along  the  line  by  the 
excavated  debris  which  fringed  its 
edges  ;  with  a  double  row  of  infant  trees 
marking  its  curb -lines,  each  one  of 
which  was  shriveled  to  a  crisp  by  the 
blistering  heat.  Added  to  this  mockery, 
at  regular  intervals  stood  flower-beds  in 
ovals,  and  diamonds,  and  circles,  filled 
with  plants  burned  to  a  cinder,  their 
very  blossoms,  which  no  man  had  dared 
pluck,  dead  for  months,  and  still  stand 
ing  brown  and  dust-begrimed. 

Such  is  the  great  boulevard  leading 
from  the  railway  to  the  palace ! 

The  boulevard,  however,  is  not  the 
only  part  of  Sofia  illustrating  the  pre 
vailing  taste  to  overturn  and  recon 
struct.  One  sees  it  in  the  new  part  of 
the  town,  where  government  buildings, 
bare,  white,  and  forbidding,  are  going 
up  in  all  directions.  One  sees  it  also 
in  the  old  mosque-and-garden-landmarks 
left  standing  high  above  new  streets 
now  being  cut  to  their  very  edges  ;  their 
preservation  a  tacit  acknowledgment 
of  their  right  to  exist,  their  isolation  a 
forerunner  of  their  death,  —  quite  as  the 


Buiga-    old  traditions  are  being  undermined  by 

ouff?e''a  the  Present  government. 

Many  of  these  streets  serve  a  double 
purpose.  They  make  a  short  route  to 
the  palace,  and  they  provide  right  of 
way  for  hasty  artillery  practice.  One 
cannot  always  tell,  in  so  changeable  a 
climate  as  that  of  Bulgaria,  when  the 
prevailing  political  wind  may  shift. 

The  palace  itself,  a  great  hospital- 
looking  building  surrounded  by  a  gar 
den,  suggests  only  stately  discomfort 
and  emptiness.  In  walking  through  its 
great  halls  and  scantily  furnished  salons, 
I  could  not  help  pondering  upon  the 
peculiarities  of  human  nature,  and  won 
dering  what  could  have  induced  this  fine 
young  officer  —  and  he  is  a  fine  fellow 
in  every  sense  of  the  word  —  to  give  up 
his  brilliant  life  in  Vienna,  the  most 
delightful  capital  in  Europe,  and  to  a 
young  man  of  fortune  the  most  fascinat 
ing,  in  order  to  bury  himself  in  this  ugly 
pile  of  masonry.  But  then  the  market 
is  never  overstocked  with  empty  thrones, 
while  would-be  kings  are  a  drug. 

The  old  part  of  the  town,  however,  is 
still  quaint  and  Oriental,  and  has  thus 
far  escaped  the  restless  shovel  and  saw. 
It  lies  in  the  dip  of  a  saucer-shaped  val 
ley,  surrounded  by  bare  brown  hills. 
Netted  with  crooked,  dirty  streets  and 

114 


choked  with  low,  shambling  houses,  A  Buiga- 
with  here  and  there  a  ruined  mosque,  it 
remains  a  picturesque  reminder  of  the 
days  of  Turkish  rule,  unchanged  since 
the  signing  of  the  Berlin  Treaty,  when 
in  a  single  year  five  thousand  of  Mo 
hammed's  chosen  shook  the  dust  of 
Sofia  from  their  feet  and  sought  refuge 
under  the  Sultan. 

The  most  interesting  of  these  quaint 
remnants  of  Oriental  architecture  found 
in  the  old  part  of  the  city  is  the  Mosque 
Bania-bashie,  dating  back  to  the  year 
1279.  This  mosque  is  still  the  resort 
of  the  devout  Mohammedan,  who  prays 
therein  five  times  a  day  with  his  face 
towards  Mecca,  and  who,  despite  the  re 
strictions  that  vex  his  race,  still  pros 
trates  himself  on  the  floor  of  the  mosque 
below,  in  obedience  to  the  call  of  the 
muezzin  from  the  slender  minaret  above. 

Here  I  had  my  first  glimpse  of  Mo 
hammedan  worship,  and  to  one  unac 
customed  to  the  forms  of  the  Moham 
medan  religion,  and  especially  to  one 
who  sees  them  for  the  first  time,  I  know 
of  no  religious  spectacle  more  impres 
sive.  Before  you  stands  a  barefooted 
Turk  erect  on  his  prayer-rug  with  his 
face  towards  Mecca  and  his  eyes  look 
ing  straight  into  the  eyes  of  his  God. 
You  see  at  a  glance  that  it  is  not  a  duty 
"5 


A  Buiga-  with  him,  nor  a  formality,  nor  the  main 
ra  tenance  of  a  time-honored  custom.  It 
is  his  very  life.  Watch  him  as  he 
enters  this  wretched  interior  of  Bania- 
bashie,  with  its  scaling  and  crumbling 
walls,  and  its  broken  windows  through 
which  the  doves  fly  in  and  out.  Outside, 
at  the  trickling  fountain,  he  has  washed 
his  feet  and  face  and  hands,  bathing  his 
throat  and  smoothing  his  beard  with  his 
wet  fingers.  He  is  a  rough,  broad- 
shouldered,  poorly  clad  man  in  fez  and 
skirt,  his  waist  girt  with  a  wide  sash 
ragged  and  torn.  He  is  perhaps  a  "  ha- 
mal,"  a  man  who  carries  great  weights 
on  his  back,  —  a  human  beast  of  burden. 
His  load,  whatever  it  may  be,  is  outside 
in  the  court.  His  hourly  task  is  his 
daily  bread  ;  but  he  has  heard  the  shrill 
cry  from  the  minaret  up  against  the  sky, 
and  stops  instantly  to  obey. 

He  enters  the  sacred  building  with 
his  shoes  in  his  hands.  These  he 
leaves  at  the  edge  of  the  mat.  Now  he 
is  on  holy  ground.  Advancing  slowly, 
he  halts  half-way  across  the  floor,  and 
stands  erect.  Before  him  is  a  blank 
wall ;  beyond  it  the  tomb  of  the  Pro 
phet.  For  a  moment  he  is  perfectly  still, 
his  eyes  closed,  his  lips  motionless.  It 
is  as  if  he  stood  in  the  antechamber  of 
Heaven,  awaiting  recognition.  Then 

116 


his  face  lights  up.  He  has  been  seen  !  A  Buiga 
The  next  instant  he  is  on  his  knees, 
and,  stretching  out  his  hands,  prostrates 
himself,  his  forehead  pressed  to  the  floor. 
This  solitary  service  continues  for  an 
hour.  The  man  stands  erect  one  mo 
ment,  with  a  movement  as  if  he  said, 
"  Command  me ;  I  am  here ; "  the  next 
he  is  prostrate  in  obedience.  Then  he 
backs  slowly  out,  and,  noiseless,  regains 
his  shoes,  bends  his  back  to  his  burden, 
and  keeps  on  his  way,  his  face  having 
lost  all  its  tired,  hunted  look. 

There  is  no  mistaking  the  impression 
made  upon  you.  It  is  not  a  religious 
ceremony,  nor  a  form  of  devotion,  nor  a 
prayer.  This  man  has  been  in  the  very 
presence  of  his  God. 

Next  to  this  crumbling  mosque  stands 
the  Turkish  bath,  with  its  round  dome 
pierced  with  bull's-eyes  through  which 
the  light  falls  in  slanting  parallel  bars 
upon  clouds  of  boiling  steam.  The  wa 
ter  gushes  from  the  ground  at  a  temper 
ature  of  110°  Fahrenheit,  the  pool  being 
shoulder-deep  and  filling  the  whole  in 
terior  excepting  the  narrow  edge  around 
which  cling  the  half-boiled  natives  in 
every  variety  of  undress  uniform  from 
the  pattern  used  in  the  Garden  of  Eden 
down  to  the  modern  dressing-gown. 

Outside  of  this  circular  room  are  cool- 
117 


ABuiga-  ing  apartments  smelling  of  wet  towels 
and  furnished  with  divans  upon  which 
men  lounge  half -clad,  smoking  ciga 
rettes.  Now  and  then  from  an  inside 
cubbyhole  come  the  whiff  of  a  narghile 
and  that  unmistakable  aroma,  the  steam 
of  smoking  coffee. 

What  a  luxury  after  a  four  months' 
drought  and  its  consequent  accumula 
tion  of  Bulgarian  dust !  How  genuine 
and  unique  this  volcanic-heated  sympo 
sium  compared  to  all  its  base  imitations 
palmed  off  on  a  suffering  public  in  the 
several  capitals  of  Europe  and  America ! 
For  more  than  six  hundred  years,  and 
in  fact  before  the  mosque  was  built, 
has  this  pool  of  Siloam  comforted  the 
sick  and  soothed  the  well  and  cleansed 
the  soiled.  And  hot,  too,  —  boiling  hot 
out  of  the  ground,  running  free  night 
and  day,  and  always  ready  with  its  ac 
companiments  of  Turkish  coffee,  pipes, 
and  divans.  Go  to,  with  your  marble 
slabs,  and  radiators,  and  high-pressure 
boilers  under  the  sidewalk  ! 

Beyond  this  section  of  narrow  streets 
there  runs  a  broad  highway  lined  with 
booths  attended  by  all  sorts  of  peoples 
—  Gypsies,  Turks,  Jews,  Greeks,  and 
Hungarians,  selling  every  kind  of  mer 
chandise  entirely  worthless  to  anybody 
but  a  native.  Here  are  rings  of  bread, 

118 


squares  of  leather  for  sandals,  messes  A 
in  bowls  with  indescribable  things  float- 
ing  about  in  boiling  grease,  heaps  and 
lumps  of  other  things  served  smoking 
hot  in  wooden  plates,  and  festoons  of 
candied  fruit  strung  on  straws  and 
sugared  with  dust.  Here  are  piles  of 
melons  and  baskets  on  baskets  of  grapes, 
—  these  last  delicious,  it  being  the  sea 
son, —  and  great  strings  of  onions,  pyra 
mids  of  tomatoes,  and  the  like.  Every 
where  is  a  mob  in  rags  apparently  intent 
upon  cutting  one  another's  throats  to 
save  half  a  piastre. 

Farther  on  is  the  Jews'  quarter,  the 
street  Nischkolitza,  with  its  low  houses 
eked  out  by  awnings  under  which  sit 
groups  of  people  lounging  and  talking, 
and  behind  these,  in  little  square  boxes 
of  rooms  let  into  the  wall,  squat  the 
money-changers,  their  bank  accounts  ex 
posed  in  a  small  box  with  a  glass  top 
through  which  can  be  seen  half  the  coin 
age  and  printage  of  eastern  Europe. 

If  the  king's  continued  absence  caused 
any  uneasiness  among  the  people  crowd 
ing  these  streets  and  bazaars,  there  was 
nothing  on  the  surface  to  indicate  it. 
Many  of  them  looked  as  if  they  had 
very  little  to  lose,  and  those  who  had 
a  little  more  either  carried  it  on  their 
persons  in  long  chains  of  coins  welded 
119 


together,  —  a  favorite  form  of  safe-de- 
P°sit  with  the  Bulgarians,  — or,  like  the 
money-changers,  hived  it  in  a  portable 
box. 

Nor  could  I  discover  that  any  one 
realized  that  he  was  living  over  a  powder- 
magazine  with  a  match-factory  next  door. 
On  the  contrary,  everybody  was  good- 
natured  and  happy,  chaffing  one  another 
across  the  booths  of  the  bazaars,  and 
bursting  into  roars  of  laughter  when  my 
brush  brought  out  the  features  of  some 
well-known  street-vender. 

The  only  native  who  really  seemed  to 
possess  any  positive  ideas  on  the  uncer 
tain  condition  of  public  affairs  was  a  Po 
lish  Jew,  the  keeper  of  the  bath,  whom  I 
found  berating  two  soldiers  for  refusing 
to  pay  extra  for  their  narghiles,  and  who 
expressed  to  me  his  contempt  for  the 
ruling  powers  by  sweeping  in  the  air  a 
circle  which  embraced  the  palace  and 
the  offenders,  spitting  on  the  floor,  and 
grinding  his  heel  in  the  moistened  spot. 


Near  the  bath,  and  in  fact  almost  con 
nected  with  it  by  a  rambling  row  of 
houses,  is  one  of  the  few  Oriental  cafes 
left  in  Sofia,  — a  one-story  building  with 
curious  sloping  roof,  its  one  door  open- 

120 


ing  upon  the  street  corner.  It  is  called  A 
the  "Maritza."  On  both  sides  of  this  r£nu2era 
entrance  are  long,  low  windows  shaped 
like  those  of  an  old  English  inn,  and  be 
neath  these  —  outside  on  the  sidewalk 
—  is  a  row  of  benches,  upon  which 
lounge  idlers  sipping  coffee  and  smoking 
cigarettes.  Within  are  a  motley  crew 
of  all  nationalities  liberally  sprinkled 
with  Bulgarian  soldiers  out  on  a  day's 
leave. 

Coffee  is  almost  the  only  beverage 
in  these  Turkish  cafes.  It  is  always 
handed  you  scalding  hot  in  little,  sau- 
cerless  cups  holding  hardly  a  mouthful 
each.  A  glass  of  cold  water  invariably 
accompanies  each  cup.  This  coffee  is 
generally  the  finest  old  Mocha,  with  an 
aroma  and  flavor  unapproachable  in  any 
brand  that  I  know  except  perhaps  the 
Uruapam  coffee  of  Mexico.  In  prepar 
ing  it  the  roasted  bean  is  ground  as  fine 
as  flour  in  a  hand-mill ;  a  teaspoonful  of 
the  powder,  with  half  the  amount  of  fine 
sugar,  being  put  into  a  brass  pot  with  a 
long  handle.  To  this  is  added  a  table- 
spoonful  of  boiling  water.  The  pot  is 
then  thrust  into  the  coals  of  a  charcoal 
fire  until  the  coffee  reaches  boiling  point, 
when  it  is  caught  up  by  the  waiter,  who 
runs  to  your  table  and  pours  the  whole 
into  your  cup.  Although  it  is  dark  and 
121 


A  Buiga-  thick,  it  is  never  strong,  and  there  is 
ra  not  a  wakeful  hour  in  a  dozen  cups. 

To  me  there  is  nothing  so  interesting 
as  one  of  these  Oriental  cafes,  and  so  I 
turned  in  from  the  street,  drew  a  square 
straw-covered  stool  up  to  a  low  table, 
and  held  up  one  ringer.  A  fez-covered 
attendant  shuffled  over  and  filled  my 
cup.  As  I  raised  it  to  my  lips,  my  eyes 
caught  the  riveted  glance  of  a  black- 
bearded  man  with  a  beak-like  nose  and 
two  ferret  eyes  watching  me  intently. 
He  was  dressed  in  a  half -cloak  orna 
mented  with  a  dark  braid  in  twists  and 
circles,  and  wore  a  slouch  hat. 

Being  stared  at  in  a  cafe"  for  the  first 
five  minutes  is  so  usual  an  experience 
for  me,  in  my  tramps  abroad,  that  I  ac 
cept  it  as  part  of  the  conditions  of  travel. 
But  there  are,  of  course,  different  kinds 
of  stares,  all  induced  and  kept  up  for 
the  most  part  by  idle  curiosity,  which 
generally  ceases  after  my  dress  has  been 
examined,  and  especially  my  shoes,  and 
when  my  voice  has  been  found  to  be 
like  that  of  other  men. 

This  man's  stare,  however,  was  devoid 
of  curiosity.  His  was  the  face  of  a  fer 
ret  ;  a  sly,  creeping,  half-shrinking  face, 
with  an  eye  that  pierced  you  one  mo 
ment  and  slunk  away  the  next.  The 
thought  flashed  through  my  mind  —  a 

122 


Spanish  Jew  who   hides   his  gold   in  a  A 
hole,  and  who  is  here  changing  money 
while  the  "  effervescence  "  lasts.    When 
I  looked  again  a  moment  later  he  had 
disappeared. 

The  face  haunted  me  so  much  that  I 
traced  its  outlines  in  my  sketch-book, 
trying  to  remember  where  I  had  seen  it. 
I  finally  persuaded  myself  that  it  only 
suggested  some  similar  face  seen  long 
ago.  Finishing  my  coffee,  I  lighted  a 
cigarette,  picked  up  a  stool,  and,  plant 
ing  it  across  the  street,  began  a  sketch 
of  the  exterior  of  the  cafe. 

The  usual  crowd  gathered,  many  fol 
lowing  me  from  the  room  itself,  and  soon 
the  throng  was  so  great  that  I  could  not 
see  the  lower  lines  of  the  building.  No 
language  that  I  speak  is  adapted  to  Bul 
garia,  and  so,  rising  to  my  feet,  I  called 
out  in  honest  Anglo-Saxon  :  — 

"Get  down  in  front!"  This  accom 
panied  by  a  gesture  like  a  policeman's 
"  Move  on." 

Nobody  got  down  in  front,  or  behind, 
for  that  matter.  On  the  contrary,  every 
body  who  was  down  got  up,  and  the 
sketch  was  fast  becoming  hopeless,  when 
four  gendarmes  arose  out  of  the  ground 
as  noiselessly  and  mysteriously  as  if 
they  had  issued  from  between  the  cracks 
of  the  paving-stones,  formed  a  hollow 
123 


A  Buiga-    square,  with  the  caf£  at  one  end  and  me 

a  at  the  other' "~ the  intervening  space 
being  as  clear  of  bystanders  as  the  back 
of  my  hand,  —  and  stood  like  statues 
until  the  sketch  was  finished.  When 
I  closed  my  book  half  an  hour  later,  a 
man  on  the  outer  edge,  wrapped  in  a 
cloak,  raised  his  hand.  The  crowd  fell 
back,  a  gap  was  made,  and  the  four 
gendarmes  passed  out  and  were  swal 
lowed  up. 

I  turned  and  caught  a  glimpse  of  a 
black  hat  half  concealing  a  dark,  bearded 
face.  It  was  my  friend  of  the  cafe".  Not 
a  Spanish  Jew  at  all,  I  said  to  myself,  but 
some  prominent  citizen  respected  by  the 
police  and  anxious  to  be  courteous  to 
a  stranger.  And  again  I  dismissed  the 
face  and  the  incident  from  my  mind. 

Just  here  another  face  appeared  and 
another  incident  occurred,  neither  of 
which  was  so  easily  forgotten.  The 
face  enlivened  the  well-knit,  graceful 
figure  of  a  young  man  of  thirty  dressed 
in  a  gray  traveling-suit  and  wearing  a 
derby  hat.  Every  line  in  his  good-na 
tured  countenance  expressed  that  rarest 
and  most  delightful  of  combinations,  — 
humor  and  grit.  From  this  face  pro 
ceeded  a  voice  which  sent  down  my 
spine  that  peculiar  tingle  which  one 
feels  when,  half-way  across  the  globe, 

124 


surrounded  by  jargon  and  heathen,  he  A 
hears  suddenly  his  own  tongue,  in  his 
own  accent,  spoken  by  a  fellow-towns 
man. 

"  I  heard  your  '  down  in  front '  and 
knew  right  away  where  you  were  from  ; 
but  these  Bashi-bazouks  blocked  the 
way.  My  name  is  Burton,  correspondent 
of  the  '  Herald/  Been  here  two  months 
watching  this  mouse-trap.  Come  into 
the  cafe",  where  we  can  talk.  You  don't 
know  what  a  godsend  an  American  is  in 
a  hole  like  this." 

An  interchange  of  cards  settled  all 
formalities,  and  when,  half  an  hour  later, 
numbers  of  mutual  friends  were  discov 
ered  and  inquired  after,  we  grew  as  con 
fiding  and  comfortable  as  if  we  had  been 
the  best  of  friends  through  life. 

Burton  was  one  of  those  men  of  whom 
everybody  hears,  whom  few  people  see, 
and  not  many  people  know ;  one  of 
those  men  whose  homes  are  fixed  by 
telegrams,  whose  wits  like  their  pencils 
are  sharpened  in  emergencies,  whose  en 
ergies  are  untiring  and  exhaustless,  who 
ransack,  permeate,  get  at  the  bottom  of 
things,  and  endure,  —  individual  men, 
sagacious,  many-sided,  and  productive, 
whose  whole  identity  is  mercilessly  swal 
lowed  up  and  lost  in  that  unnoticed  head 
line,  "  Our  Correspondent." 
125 


A  Buiga-  I  had  heard  of  Burton  in  Paris  a  few 
ra  weeks  before,  where  his  endless  re 
sources  in  the  field  and  his  arctic  cool 
ness  in  tight  places  were  bywords 
among  his  fellow-craftsmen.  At  the 
time  his  friends  supposed  him  to  be 
somewhere  between  Vienna  and  Con 
stantinople,  although  none  of  them  lo 
cated  him  in  Bulgaria  ;  great  morning 
journals  being  somewhat  reticent  as  to 
the  identity  and  whereabouts  of  their 
staff. 

"  Yes,"  he  continued,  "  life  here  would 
reconcile  a  man  to  the  bottomless  pit. 
I  was  in  London  doing  some  Irish  busi 
ness,  —  rose  in  your  buttonhole  at  break 
fast,  Hyde  Park  in  the  afternoon,  and 
all  that  sort  of  thing,  — when  a  telegram 
sent  me  flying  to  Paris.  Two  hours 
after  I  was  aboard  the  Orient  express, 
with  my  shirts  half -dried  in  my  bag,  and 
an  order  in  my  inside  pocket  to  overhaul 
Stamboloff  and  find  out  whether  the 
prince  had  left  for  good,  or  was  waiting 
until  the  blow  was  over  before  he  came 
back.  You  see,  the  Panitza  affair  came 
near  upsetting  things  here,  and  at  the 
time  it  looked  as  if  the  European  war 
circus  was  about  to  begin." 

"Did  you  find  Stamboloff?"  I  asked. 

"  Yes.  Reached  the  frontier,  learned 
he  had  left  Sofia,  and,  after  traveling  all 

126 


night  in  a  cart,  got  him  at  Sistova,  and  A 
caught  our  Sunday's  edition  three  hours 
later.  Here  I  have  been  ever  since, 
waiting  for  something  to  turn  up,  and 
spending  half  my  nights  trying  to  get 
what  little  does  turn  up  across  the  fron 
tier  and  so  on  to  Paris.  And  the  worst 
of  it  is  that  for  four  weeks  I  have  n't  had 
a  line  from  headquarters." 

"  What !  Leave  you  here  in  the 
lurch  ? " 

"  No  ;  certainly  not.  They  write  regu 
larly  ;  but  these  devils  stop  everything 
at  the  post-office,  open  and  re-seal  all 
my  private  letters,  and  only  give  me 
what  they  think  good  for  me.  For  two 
weeks  past  I  have  been  sending  my 
stuff  across  the  frontier  and  mailing  it 
in  Servia.  How  the  devil  did  you  get 
permission  to  sketch  around  here  ?  " 

I  produced  the  talismanic  scroll  with 
the  water-mark  and  the  image  and  the 
superscription,  and  related  my  experi 
ence  with  the  prefect. 

"  Gave  you  the  freedom  of  the  city, 
did  he  ?  I  wager  you  he  will  go  through 
your  traps  like  a  custom-house  officer 
when  you  leave,  and  seize  everything 
you  have.  They  have  been  doing  their 
level  best  to  drive  me  out  of  here  ever 
since  we  published  that  first  interview 
with  Stamboloff,  and  they  would  if  they 
127 


A  Bulga-    dared.      Only,   being   a    correspondent, 

*  y°u  see» and  this  be;ns  a  liberal> free 

monarchy,  it  would  n't  sound  well  the 
next  day. 

"  Come,  finish  your  coffee,  and  I  '11 
show  you  something  you  can  never  see 
outside  of  Bulgaria." 

We  strolled  up  past  the  bazaars  along 
the  boulevard,  stopping  for  a  moment  to 
note  the  cathedral,  with  one  end  perched 
up  in  the  air,  —  Stamboloff s  commis 
sioners  of  highways  having  lowered  the 
street  grade  at  that  point  some  twenty 
feet  below  the  level  of  the  porch  floor. 

Opposite  this  edifice  was  the  skylight 
of  the  local  photographer.  The  old,  fa 
miliar  smell  of  evaporating  ether  greeted 
us  as  we  entered  his  one-story  shop,  — 
it  would  be  a  poetic  license  to  call  it  a 
gallery,  —  and  the  usual  wooden  balcony, 
with  its  painted  vase  and  paper  flowers, 
grinned  at  us  from  its  customary  place 
behind  the  iron  head-rest. 

Here  were  portraits  of  the  prince 
and  his  mother,  Princess  Clementine, 
and  of  poor  Panitza,  —  whom  I  really 
could  not  help  liking,  traitor  as  he  was 
to  Stamboloff,  —  and  the  rest  of  the 
notables,  not  forgetting  the  dethroned 
prince,  Alexander  of  Battenberg,  all  of 
whom  had  occupied  the  plush  armchair, 
or  had  stood  behind  the  Venetian  railing 

128 


with  the  Lake  of  Como  and  Mont  Blanc  A 
in  the  distance. 

Burton  hunted  through  the  collection 
of  portraits  scattered  about  the  table, 
and  handed  me  two  photographs,  —  one 
of  a  well-built,  handsome  man  with 
pointed  mustache,  dressed  in  the  native 
costume  and  shackled  with  heavy  chains 
fastened  to  his  ankles.  He  was  stand 
ing  in  a  prison-yard  guarded  by  a  soldier 
holding  a  carbine. 

"  Good-looking  cut-throat,  is  n't  he  ? 
Might  be  a  diplomat  or  a  night  editor  ? 
Too  honest,  you  think?  Well,  that's 
Taco  Voyvoda,  the  famous  bandit  who 
was  caught  a  few  years  ago  in  the  act 
of  murdering  a  detachment,  and  who 
was  filled  full  of  lead  the  next  day  at 
the  government's  expense.  Now  look 
at  this,"  and  he  handed  me  the  other 
photograph. 

I  held  it  to  the  light,  and  a  shiver  ran 
through  me.  On  a  box  covered  with  a 
piece  of  canvas  rested  the  head  of  a 
man  severed  from  the  body.  One  eye 
was  closed.  The  other  was  lost  in  a 
ghastly  hole,  the  mark  left  by  a  rifle-ball. 
The  mustache  was  still  stiff  and  pointed, 
one  end  drooping  a  little,  and  the  mouth 
set  firm  and  determined.  The  whole 
face  carried  an  expression  as  if  the  death 
agony  had  been  suddenly  frozen  into  it. 
129 


A  Buiga-  About  the  horror  were  grouped  the  ban- 
di*'s  carbine,  holsters,  and  cartridge-belt 
bristling  with  cartridges.  The  belt  hung 
over  the  matted  hair  framing  the  face. 

Burton  watched  me  curiously. 

"  Lovely  souvenir,  is  n't  it  ?  The  day 
after  the  shooting  they  cut  off  poor 
Taco's  head,  and  our  friend  here "  — 
pointing  to  the  photographer  —  "fixed 
him  up  in  this  fashion  to  meet  the  pop 
ular  demand.  The  sale  was  enormous. 
Bah  !  let 's  go  to  dinner." 

My  new-found  friend  had  a  better 
place  than  the  one  presided  over  by  my 
slightly  bald  waiter  with  the  Tower  of 
Babel  education.  He  would  take  me  to 
his  home.  He  knew  of  a  garden  where 
a  few  tables  were  set,  girt  about  with 
shrubs  and  sheltered  by  overhanging 
trees  that  had  escaped  the  drought.  At 
one  end  was  a  modest  house  with  a  few 
rooms  to  let.  His  gripsack  was  in  one 
of  these.  That  was  why  he  loved  to  call 
it  his  home. 

Soon  a  white  cloth  covered  a  table  for 
two,  and  a  very  comfortable  dinner  was 
served  in  the  twilight.  With  the  coffee 
the  talk  drifted  into  the  present  politi 
cal  outlook,  and  I  put  the  universal  co 
nundrum  : — 

"  Will  the  prince  return  ? " 

"You  can't  tell,"  said  Burton.  "For 

130 


myself,  I  believe  he  will.  He  must  do  A 
so  if  he  wants  to  see  his  money  again, 
and  he  can  do  so  in  safety  if  Stamboloff 
succeeds  in  carrying  the  elections  next 
month,  which  I  believe  he  will.  If  he 
fails,  the  nearer  they  all  hug  the  frontier 
the  better ;  for  there  are  hundreds  of 
men  right  here  around  us  who  would 
serve  every  one  of  them  as  the  soldiers 
did  Taco  Voyvoda.  They  know  it,  too, 
for  they  are  all  off  electioneering  except 
the  prince,  who,  I  understand,  has  left 
Ryllo  to-day  for  Varna.  He  is  hanging 
on  the  telegraph  now.  Not  the  poles, 
but  the  dispatches. 

"  The  worst  feature  of  the  situation 
is  that  most  of  the  factions  are  backed 
up  by  Russian  and  other  agents,  each  in 
their  several  interests,  ready  to  lend  a 
hand.  To-day  it  is  a  game  of  chess  be 
tween  Russia  and  Turkey  ;  to-morrow  it 
may  involve  all  Europe.  Through  it  all 
my  sympathies  are  with  the  prince.  He 
has  been  here  now  nearly  three  years 
trying  to  make  something  of  these  bar 
barians,  and  so  far  not  a  single  Euro 
pean  power  has  recognized  him.  He 
will  get  nothing  for  his  pains,  poor  fel 
low.  When  his  money  is  all  gone  they 
will  bounce  him  as  they  did  Battenberg. 

"  Certain  members  of  the  cabinet  are 
not  safe  even  now,"  continued  Burton. 


A  Buiga-  «  While  I  was  at  Sistova,  the  other  day, 
ra  I  had  an  opportunity  of  seeing  some  of 
the  risks  that  Stamboloff  himself  runs, 
and  also  how  carefully  he  is  guarded. 
He  was  in  a  cafe"  taking  his  breakfast. 
As  soon  as  he  entered,  a  tall  sergeant 
of  gendarmes  with  his  sabre  half-drawn 
and  his  red  sash  stuck  full  of  pistols 
and  yataghans  moved  to  his  right  side, 
while  another  equally  ferocious  and  as 
heavily  armed  guarded  his  left.  Then 
the  doors  were  blocked  by  half  a  dozen 
other  gendarmes,  who  watched  every 
body's  movements.  There  is  really  not 
so  much  solid  fun  being  prime  minister 
in  Bulgaria  as  one  would  think." 

While  Burton  was  speaking  three  offi 
cers  entered  the  garden  where  we  were 
dining  and  took  possession  of  an  adjoin 
ing  table.  My  friend  nodded  to  one  of 
them  and  kept  on  talking,  lowering  his 
voice  a  trifle  and  moving  his  chair  so 
that  his  face  could  not  be  seen. 

The  Bulgarians  were  in  white  uni 
forms  and  carried  their  side-arms. 

The  next  instant  a  young  man  entered 
hurriedly,  looked  about  anxiously,  and 
came  straight  towards  our  table.  When 
he  caught  sight  of  me  he  drew  back. 
Burton  motioned  him  to  advance,  and 
turned  his  right  ear  for  a  long  whispered 
communication,  interrupting  him  occa- 

132 


sionally  by  such  telephone  exclamations  A 
as,  "  Who  told  you  so  ?     When  ?     How 
did  he  find  out  ?     To-morrow  ?     What 
infernal  nonsense  !      I  don't  believe   a 
word  of  it,"  etc. 

The  young  man  bent  still  lower, 
looked  furtively  at  the  officers,  and  in 
an  inaudible  whisper  poured  another 
message  into  Burton's  ear. 

My  host  gave  a  little  start  and  turned 
a  trifle  pale. 

"  The  devil,  you  say  !  Better  come  to 
my  room,  then,  to-night  at  twelve." 

" Anything  up?"  I  asked  after  the 
man  had  gone,  noticing  the  change  in 
Burton's  manner. 

"Well,  yes.  My  assistant  tells  me 
that  my  last  letter  has  been  overhauled 
this  side  of  the  frontier,  and  that  orders 
for  my  arrest  will  be  signed  to-morrow. 
I  don't  believe  it.  But  you  can't  tell, — 
these  people  are  fools  enough  to  do  any 
thing.  If  I  knew  which  of  my  letters 
had  reached  our  office  I  would  n't  care  ; 
but  I  have  n't  seen  our  paper  since  my 
first  dispatches  appeared,  more  than  a 
month  ago." 

"That  needn't  worry  you.  I  have 
every  one  of  them  in  my  bag  at  the  ho 
tel,  and  every  issue  of  your  paper  since 
you  arrived  here.  I  knew  I  was  coming, 
and  I  wanted  to  be  posted." 
133 


A  Buiga-        Burton  looked  at  me  in  open  astonish- 

rian  Opera 


"  Certainly.  Come  to  my  room  ;  get 
them  in  five  minutes." 

"Well,  that  paralyzes  me!  Here  I 
have  been  stranded  for  news  and  blocked 
for  weeks  by  these  brigands  who  rob  my 
mail,  and  here  you  pick  me  up  in  the 
streets  and  haul  everything  I  want  out 
of  your  carpet-bag  !  Don't  ever  put  that 
in  a  story,  for  nobody  would  ever  be 
lieve  it.  Give  me  a  cigarette.'*' 

I  opened  my  case,  and  as  I  handed 
him  its  contents  my  eyes  rested  on  a 
man  watching  us  intently.  He  was  sit 
ting  at  the  officers'  table.  With  the  flar 
ing  of  Burton's  match  his  face  came  into 
full  relief. 

It  was  my  friend  of  the  morning. 

"  There  he  is  again,"  I  blurted  out. 

"Who?"  said  Burton  without  mov 
ing. 

"The  man  in  the  Turkish  cafe,  —  the 
one  who  ordered  the  soldiers  around. 
Who  is  he  ?  " 

Burton  never  moved  a  muscle  of  his 
face  except  to  blow  rings  over  his  coffee- 
cup. 

"A  mean-looking  hound  in  a  slouch 
hat,  with  rat-terrier  eyes,  bushy  beard, 
and  a  bad-fitting  cloak  ?  " 

134 


"  Yes,"  said  I,  comparing  the  descrip-  A 
tion  over  his  shoulder. 

"  Why !  that 's  my  shadow,  —  a  delicate 
attention  bestowed  on  me  by  the  prefect. 
He  thinks  I  don't  know  him,  but  I  fool 
him  every  day.  I  got  two  columns  out 
last  night  from  under  his  very  nose,  — 
right  at  this  table.  The  waiter  carried 
them  off  in  a  napkin,  and  my  man 
nabbed  them  outside." 

"  A  spy  ?  " 

"  No  ;  a  shadow,  a  night-hawk.  For 
nearly  two  months  this  fellow  has  never 
taken  his  eyes  off  me,  and  yet  he  has 
never  seen  me  look  him  in  the  face. 
Come,  these  people  are  getting  too  so 
ciable." 

In  an  instant  we  were  in  the  street, 
and  in  three  minutes  had  entered  my 
hotel.  Leaving  Burton  in  the  hall,  I 
mounted  the  broad  staircase,  went 
straight  to  my  room,  picked  up  my 
pocket  sketch-book,  and  thrust  the 
"  clippings  "  into  my  inside  pocket. 

When  I  regained  the  corridor  outside 
my  door  the  man  in  the  slouch  hat  pre 
ceded  me  downstairs  ! 

Smothering  my  astonishment,  —  I  had 
left  him  sitting  in  the  garden  five  min 
utes  before,  —  I  followed  slowly,  match 
ing  my  steps  to  his,  and  turning  over  in 
my  mind  whether  it  would  be  best  to 
135 


A  Bulga-    swallow  the  clippings  or  drop  them  over 
the  balusters. 

I  could  see  Burton  below,  standing 
near  the  door  absorbed  in  an  Orient  ex 
press  time-table  tacked  to  the  wall.  (I 
was  to  leave  for  Constantinople  the  next 
day.)  He  must  have  heard  our  footsteps, 
but  he  never  turned  his  head. 

The  man  reached  the  hall  floor,  —  I 
was  five  steps  behind, —  stood  within 
ten  feet  of  Burton,  and  began  striking 
matches  for  a  cigar  which  was  still  burn 
ing. 

I  decided  instantly. 

"Oh  !  Burton,"  I  called  out,  "  I  found 
the  sketch-book.  See  what  I  did  here 
yesterday  ; "  and  I  ran  rapidly  over  the 
leaves,  noting  as  I  turned,  "  The  Jews' 
Quarter"  —  "  Minaret  of  Bania-bashie  " 
—  "Ox-Team  down  by  the  Bazaar,"  etc. 

The  man  lingered,  and  I  could  feel 
him  looking  over  my  shoulder.  Then 
the  glass  door  clicked,  and  he  disap 
peared. 

Burton  raised  his  hand  warningly. 

"Where  did  you  pick  him  up  ?  " 

"  Outside  my  door." 

"  Keyhole  business,  eh  ?  Did  you  get 
them?" 

I  touched  my  inside  pocket. 

"Good."  And  he  slipped  the  pack 
age  of  clippings  under  his  waistcoat. 

136 


The  next  morning  I  found  this  note  A 
tucked  under  my  door  :  - 

"  The  game  is  up.  Meet  me  at  station 
at  twelve.  BURTON." 

Five  minutes  before  the  appointed 
hour  my  traps  were  heaped  up  in  one 
corner  of  the  waiting-room. 

I  confess  to  a  certain  degree  of  anxiety 
as  I  waited  in  the  station,  both  on  my 
own  account  and  on  his.  I  was  unable 
to  understand  how  the  night-hawk  could 
have  reached  my  chamber  door  ahead  of 
me  unless  he  had  sailed  over  the  roof  and 
dropped  down  the  chimney,  and  I  was 
equally  willing  to  admit  that  something 
besides  a  desire  to  see  me  safely  in  bed 
had  induced  him  to  keyhole  my  move 
ments.  Perhaps  his  sudden  disappear 
ance  through  the  glass  door  was,  after 
all,  only  preparatory  to  including  me  in 
the  attentions  he  was  reserving  for 
Burton. 

When  the  exact  hour  arrived,  and  the 
Orient  express  direct  for  Philippopolis 
and  Constantinople  rolled  into  the  de 
pot,  and  still  Burton  did  not  appear,  I 
began  to  realize  the  absurdity  of  waiting 
for  a  convict  at  the  main  entrance.  Bur- 
137 


A  Buiga-  ton  of  course  would  be  chained  to  two 
ra  s°ldiers  and  placed  in  a  baggage-van,  or 
perhaps  be  shackled  around  the  ankles 
like  Voyvoda  and  lifted  out  of  a  cart  by 
his  waistband.  The  yard  was  the  place 
to  find  him. 

I  made  my  way  between  the  two 
door-guards,  who  eyed  me  in  a  manner 
that  convinced  me  that  I  was  under  sur 
veillance  and  would  most  likely  catch 
both  balls  in  the  vicinity  of  my  collar- 
button  if  I  attempted  to  move  out  of 
range. 

But  there  was  nothing  in  the  yard  ex 
cept  empty  cars  and  a  squad  of  raw  re 
cruits  sitting  on  their  bundles  awaiting 
transportation,  and  so  I  tried  the  boule 
vard  side  again. 

No  Burton. 

Just  as  I  was  about  to  give  him  up  for 
lost  and  had  begun  turning  over  in  my 
mind  what  my  duty  might  be  as  a  man 
and  an  American,  a  fresh  cloud  of  dust 
blew  in  the  open  door,  and  a  cab  pulled 
up.  From  this  emerged  a  pair  of  leather 
gaiters  followed  by  two  legs  in  check 
trousers,  a  hand  with  white  wristbands 
and  English  gloves,  and  last  the  cool, 
unruffled  face  of  Burton  himself. 

"  Yes,  I  am  late,  but  I  have  been  up 
all  night  dictating.  You  got  my  note,  I 
see.  I  go  as  far  with  you  as  Philippopo- 

138 


lis,  where  I  get  out  to  reach  the  Pomuk  A 
Highlands.  You  remember  I  told  you 
about  that  old  brigand  chief,  Achmet 
Aga,  who  rules  a  province  of  forty 
square  miles  and  pays  tribute  to  no  one, 
not  even  the  Sultan.  You  know  he 
murders  everybody  who  crosses  his  line 
without  his  permission.  Well,  I  am 
going  to  interview  him." 

This  was  said  in  one  breath  and  with 
as  much  ease  of  manner  and  indifference 
to  surroundings  as  if  the  man  with  a 
slouch  hat  had  been  an  idle  dream  in 
stead  of  an  active  reality. 

"  But  what  about  your  arrest,  Burton  ? 
I  expected  " 

"  Expected  what  —  dungeons  ?  Non 
sense.  I  simply  went  out  on  my  balcony 
last  night  before  I  crawled  into  bed, 
sneezed,  and  called  out  in  French  to  my 
man  inside  to  pack  my  bag  for  this 
train.  That  satisfied  my  shadow,  for  all 
he  wants  is  to  get  me  out  of  the  way. 
Don't  worry ;  the  dog  will  be  here  to 
see  us  off." 

Burton  was  right.  That  ugly  face  was 
the  last  that  peered  at  us  as  we  rolled 
out  of  the  station. 

Six  hours  later  I  left  my  new  friend 
at  Philippopolis  with  a  regret  I  cannot 
explain,  but  with  an  exacted  promise  to 
meet  me  in  Constantinople  a  week 
139 


A  Buiga-  later,  where  we  would  enjoy  the  Turks 
together. 

The  week  passed,  and  another,  and 
then  a  third,  and  still  no  sign  of  Burton. 
I  had  begun  to  wonder  whether,  after  all, 
the  brigand  chief  had  not  served  him  as 
he  had  done  his  predecessors,  when  this 
letter,  dated  Sofia,  reached  me  :  — 

"Just  returned  from  the  mountains. 
Spent  a  most  delightful  week  with  Ach- 
met  Aga,  who  kissed  me  on  both  cheeks 
when  I  left,  and  gave  me  a  charm 
against  fire  and  sword  blessed  by  all  the 
wise  women  of  the  clan.  Would  have 
joined  you  before,  but  had  to  hurry  back 
here  for  the  opening  of  the  Sobranje. 

"  Stamboloffs  party  carried  the  day 
by  a  small  majority,  and  the  town  is  full 
of  his  men,  including  the  prince,  who 
opened  parliament  here  yesterday." 


VII.   CAPTAIN  JOE 

ANTED  — A  submarine 
engineer,  experienced  in 
handling  heavy  stone  un 
der  water.  Apply,  etc. 

In  answer  to  this  adver 
tisement,  a  man  wearing 
a  rough  jacket  and  looking  like  a  sailor 
opened  my  office  door. 

"  I  'm  Captain  Joe  Bell,  out  of  a  job. 
Seein'  your  advertisement,  I  called  up. 
Where  is  the  work,  and  what  is  it  ? " 

I  explained  briefly.  A  lighthouse 
was  to  be  built  in  the  "  Race,"  off  Fish 
er's  Island,  —  the  foundation  of  rough 
stone  protected  by  granite  blocks  weigh 
ing  ten  tons  each.  These  blocks  were 
to  be  laid  by  a  diver,  as  an  enrockment, 
their  edges  touching.  The  current  in 
the  Race  ran  six  miles  an  hour.  This 
increased  the  difficulties  of  the  work. 

While  my  visitor  bent  over  the  plans, 
tracing  each  detail  with  a  blunted  finger 
that  looked  like  a  worn-out  thole-pin,  I 
had  time  to  look  him  over.  He  was 
about  fifty  years  of  age,  powerfully  built, 
short,  and  as  broad  as  he  was  long. 
The  very  fit  of  his  clothes  indicated  his 
141 


Captain  enormous  strength.  His  pea-jacket  had 
long  since  been  pulled  out  of  shape  in 
the  effort  to  accommodate  itself  to  the 
spread  of  his  shoulders.  His  trousers 
were  corrugated,  and  half-way  up  his 
ankles,  in  the  perpetual  struggle  to  pro 
tect  equally  seat  and  knee,  —  each  wrin 
kle  outlining  a  knotted  muscle,  twisted 
up  and  down  a  pair  of  legs  short  and 
sturdy  as  rudder-posts.  His  brown  hair 
protruded  from  under  a  close-fitting  cloth 
cap,  and  curled  over  a  neck  seamed  and 
bronzed,  showing  bumps  where  almost 
every  other  man  had  hollows :  these 
short  curls  were  streaked  with  gray. 
His  face  was  round,  ruddy,  and  wind- 
tanned,  the  chin  hidden  in  a  stubby 
beard,  which  clung  to  his  lower  lip ;  the 
mouth  was  firm,  the  teeth  a  row  of  corn, 
the  jaws  strong  and  determined.  Every 
thing  about  him  indicated  reserve  force, 
endurance,  capacity,  and  push. 

Two  things  struck  me  instantly :  a 
voice  which  was  rich  and  musical,  and 
an  eye  which  looked  through  me,  —  a 
clear,  laughing,  kindling,  tender  eye, 
that  changed  every  instant,  boring  like 
a  gimlet  as  he  pored  over  the  plans,  or 
lighting  up  with  a  flash  in  the  sugges 
tion  of  ways  and  means  to  carry  them 
out. 

As  he  leaned  over  the  table,  I  noticed 

142 


that  his  wrist  was  bandaged,  the  cotton  Captain 
wrappings    showing   beneath    his   coat-  ** 
sleeve,  discovering  a  partly  healed  scar. 

"  Burnt  ?  "  I  asked. 

"No,  scraped.  It  don't  bother  now, 
but  it  was  pretty  bad  a  month  back." 

"  How  ? " 

"  Oh,  a-wreckin'.  I  Ve  been  four 
years  with  the  Off-Shore  Wreckin'  Com 
pany.  Left  yesterday." 

"What  for?" 

He  looked  straight  at  me,  and  said, 
slowly  emphasizing  each  word  :  — 

"  Me  and  the  president  did  n't  gee. 
He  had  n't  no  fault  to  find  with  me  ; 
but  I  did  n't  like  his  ways,  and  I  quit." 

So  transparent  was  his  honesty,  self- 
reliance,  and  grit  that  such  precaution 
ary  measures  as  references  or  inquiries 
never  once  entered  my  mind.  Before 
he  left  my  room  the  terms  were  agreed 
upon.  The  following  week  he  took 
charge  of  the  force,  and  the  work  be 
gan. 

As  the  summer  passed  away  the 
masses  of  granite  were  lowered  into  po 
sition,  Captain  Joe  placing  each  block 
himself,  the  steam-lighter  holding  to  her 
anchors  in  the  rip  of  the  Race. 

When  the  autumn  came  a  cottage  was 
rented  on  the  shore  of  the  nearest  har 
bor,  and  the  captain's  family  of  six 
J43 


Captain  moved  in.  Later  I  noticed  two  new 
faces  in  the  home  circle  :  —  a  pale,  sad 
woman  and  a  delicate-looking  child,  both 
dressed  in  black.  They  would  some 
times  remain  a  week,  and  then  disappear 
only  to  return  again.  The  mother  was 
introduced  by  the  captain  as  "Jennie, 
widow  of  my  old  mate  Jim." 

"What  happened  to  him,  Captain 
Joe  ?  "  I  asked  one  evening,  when  she 
left  the  room  to  take  the  child  to  bed. 
He  was  sitting  near  the  window,  from 
which  could  be  caught  a  glimpse  in 
the  twilight  of  the  tall  masts  of  the 
schooners,  coal-laden,  and  the  jibs  of 
the  smacks  at  anchor  near  the  village 
wharves. 

"  Drownded,  sir  ;  two  year  ago."  And 
he  looked  the  other  way. 

"Washed  overboard?"  I  asked,  no 
ticing  his  husky  voice. 

"  No.  Smothered  in  his  divin'-dress, 
with  a  dumb  fool  at  the  other  end  of  his 
life-line.  We  wuz  to  work  on  the  Scot 
land,  sunk  in  six  fathoms  of  water  off 
Sandy  Hook.  The  president  sent  for 
me  to  come  to  the  city,  and  I  left  Jim 
alone.  That  week  we  wuz  workin'  in 
her  lower  hold,  Jim  and  me,  I  tendin' 
and  Jim  divin',  and  then  I  goin'  below 
and  he  lookin'  out  after  my  air  hose 
and  line.  Me  bein'  away  that  day,  they 

144 


put  a  duffer  at  the  pump.  Jim  got  his  Captain 
hose  tangled  up  in  a  fluke  of  the  anchor ;  J°e 
they  misunderstood  his  signals,  and 
hauled  taut  when  they  should  have 
eased  away.  He  made  a  dash  at  the 
hose  with  his  knife,  but  whether  it  wuz 
the  brass  wire  wove  in  it,  or  because  he 
wuz  beat  for  breath,  we  don't  know. 
Anyways  he  warn't  strong  enough  to 
cut  her  through,  and  when  they  got  him 
up  he  wuz  done  for.  That  wuz  mighty 
rough  on  me,  bein'  with  Jim  mor'n  ten 
years,  in  and  out  o'  water.  So  I  look 
out  for  Jennie  and  the  young  one.  No, 
it  ain't  nothin'  strange  nor  new.  While 
I  've  got  a  roof  over  me  she 's  welcome. 
He  'd  done  the  same  for  me,  and  I  've 
got  the  best  of  it,  for  there 's  only  two  of 
his'n,  and  there  's  six  o'  mine." 

As  the  work  on  the  lighthouse  pro 
gressed  the  force  and  plant  increased. 
A  steam-tug  was  added,  stone-sloops 
were  chartered,  and  the  gradual  filling 
up  of  the  interior  of  the  foundation  be 
gan. 

The  owner  of  one  of  these  sloops  was 
a  tall,  sunken-cheeked  old  man  named 
Marrows,  who  lived  near  the  village  on 
a  small  stone-incrusted  farm.  Outside 
of  its  scanty  crop  this  vessel  and  her 
earnings  were  his  sole  resource. 

Late  one  afternoon  his  sloop  returned 


Captain  to  the  harbor  with  her  shrouds  loose, 
her  mast  started,  and  her  forefoot 
chewed  into  splinters.  It  seemed  that 
her  captain,  a  retired,  bony  fisherman, 
named  Barrett,  had  miscalculated  the 
tide,  which  cut  like  a  mill-tail  in  the 
Race.  She  had  misstayed  and  swirled, 
bow  on,  atop  of  the  enrockment  of  the 
lighthouse.  When  she  struck,  Captain 
Joe  was  in  his  diving  dress,  his  helmet 
off.  In  a  moment  he  had  loosed  his 
heavy  iron  shoes,  caught  up  a  crowbar, 
and  was  bounding  over  the  rugged  rocks 
surrounding  the  foundation,  giving  quick, 
sharp  orders  to  his  men,  who  sprang  into 
a  yawl  and  began  paying  out  a  heavy 
line. 

The  next  instant  he  was  under  the 
sloop's  bowsprit,  his  broad  back  braced 
against  her  chains,  his  legs  rigid  as  hy 
draulic  jacks.  Every  time  the  vessel 
surged  he  straightened  out,  concentrat 
ing  his  enormous  strength  and  assisting 
the  backward  movement,  so  that  when 
she  lunged  again  she  came  a  few  inches 
short  of  the  jagged  rocks,  the  wave  hav 
ing  spent  its  force.  There  he  stood  for 
half  an  hour,  shaking  his  head  free  from 
the  great  sheets  of  white  foam  breaking 
clear  over  him,  shouting  his  orders  be 
tween  the  sousings  of  the  waves,  until 
the  men  in  the  yawl  had  slung  a  kedge 

146 


anchor  away  out  astern  of  the  endan-  Captain 
gered   sloop,    and   she   was   windlassed  3°e 
clear  of  the  stone  pile  and  saved. 

Marrows  was  on  the  little  dock,  peer 
ing  through  the  twilight,  when  his  res 
cued  sloop  returned  to  the  village  har 
bor.  Captain  Joe  held  the  tiller.  He 
began  as  soon  as  Marrows's  gaunt  figure, 
outlined  against  the  evening  sky,  caught 
his  eye :  — 

"  I  tell  you,  old  man,  Captain  Barrett 
ain't  fittin'  to  fool  round  that  rock. 
He'll  get  hurt.  I  tell  you  he  ain't 
fittin'." 

"  I  believe  you,  and  I  've  told  him  so. 
Is  she  sprung,  Captain  Joe  ? " 

"  A  leetle  mite  forrard,  and  her  mast 
a  touch  to  starboard,  but  nothin'  to 
hurt." 

"  Will  she  be  any  good  any  more  ? " 
Then,  as  he  came  nearer,  "Why,  you  're 
soaking  wet :  the  boys  say  you  was  clear 
under  her."  Then,  lowering  his  voice, 
"  You  know,  Captain  Joe,  she  is  a  good 
deal  to  me." 

The  captain  laid  his  great  rough  hand 
tenderly  on  the  old  man's  shoulder. 

"  I  know  it,  I  know  it ;  that  's  why  I 
wuz  under  her  chains."  Then,  raising 
his  voice,  "  But  Barrett  ain't  fittin' ; 
mind  I  tell  you  he  ain't  fittin'." 

The  next  day  being  stormy,  with  a 
147 


Captain  gale  outside  and  no  work  possible,  Cap 
tain  Joe  tightened  up  the  shrouds  of 
the  disabled  sloop  himself,  reset  the 
mast,  lecturing  Barrett  all  the  while, 
and  then  sent  word  to  Marrows  that  she 
was  "  tight  as  a  keg,  better  'n  ever,  and 
everythin'  aboard,  'ceptin'  the  bony  fish 
erman,  who  was  out  of  a  job." 

The  winter  closed  in  with  the  founda 
tion  but  partly  completed.  Before  the 
first  December  gale  broke  on  the  rock 
the  derricks  were  stripped  of  their  rig 
ging  and  left  to  battle  with  the  winter's 
storms,  the  tools  were  stowed  in  the 
shanty,  and  all  work  suspended  until 
the  spring.  During  the  long  winter 
that  followed  Captain  Joe  took  to  the 
sea,  having  transferred  his  diving-gear 
to  the  sloop ;  and  before  April  three 
coal-laden  schooners  were  anchored,  or 
stranded,  as  befitted  their  condition,  on 
the  shoals  in  front  of  his  dock  in  the 
village  harbor.  It  made  no  difference 
to  him  how  severe  was  the  gale,  or  how 
badly  strained  the  helpless  vessel,  he 
was  under  her  bottom  almost  as  soon  as 
a  line  could  reach  her.  Then  a  patch 
of  canvas,  or  half  a  cargo  of  empty  oil- 
barrels,  buoyed  her  up  until  the  tug  could 
tighten  a  line  over  her  bow,  and  tow  her 
to  an  anchorage  inside  the  lighthouse. 

148 


It  seemed  in  truth  that  winter  as  if  each  Captain 
luckless    craft,    in   its    journey   up   the  *oe 
Sound,  did  its   level  best  to  keep   its 
rail  above   water  long  enough  to  sink 
peacefully  and  restfully  upon  some  bar 
or  shoal  within  reach  of  Captain  Joe's 
diving-tackle.     There  it  died  contented, 
feeling  sure  of  a  speedy  resurrection. 

If  a  wrecked  schooner,  coal-laden,  was 
an  unusual  sight  along  the  harbor  shore, 
a  wrecker  distributing  her  cargo  free 
to  his  neighbors  was  a  proceeding  un 
known  to  the  oldest  inhabitant.  And 
yet  this  always  occurred  when  a  fresh 
wreck  grounded  on  the  flats. 

"  That 's  all  right,"  he  would  say ; 
"  better  take  a  couple  of  boat -loads  more. 
Seems  to  me  as  if  we  wuz  goin'  to  have 
a  late  spring.  No,  I  don't  know  the 
price,  'cause  I  ain't  settled  with  the  un 
derwriters  ;  but  then  she  came  up  mighty 
easy  for  me,  and  a  few  tons  don't  make 
no  difference,  nohow." 

When  the  settling  day  came,  and  his 
share  as  salvage  was  determined  upon, 
there  was  of  course  a  heavy  shortage. 
He  always  laughed  heartily. 

"  Better  put  that  down  to  me,"  he 
would  say  to  the  agent.  "  Some  of  the 
folks  along  here  boated  off  a  little.  Guess 
they  wuz  careless,  and  did  n't  know  how 
much  they  took." 
149 


Captain  Little  indiscretions  like  this  soon  en 
deared  him  to  his  neighbors.  Before 
long  every  one  up  and  down  the  shore 
knew  him,  and  everybody  sent  a  cheery 
word  flying  after  him  whenever  they 
caught  sight  of  his  active,  restless  figure 
moving  along  the  vessel's  deck,  or  busy 
about  his  dock  and  wrecking-gear.  Even 
the  gruff  doctor  would  crane  his  head 
around  the  edge  of  his  curtained  wagon 
to  call  out  "  Good-morning,"  although 
he  might  be  clear  out  of  hailing  distance. 

So  passed  the  winter. 

When  the  first  breath  of  spring  blew 
over  the  marsh  the  shanty  for  the  men 
on  the  rock  was  rebuilt  and  the  work 
resumed. 

During  all  these  months  the  captain 
never  once  referred  to  his  early  life  or 
associations,  or  gave  me  the  slightest 
clue  to  his  antecedents.  Now  and  then 
he  would  speak  of  Jim,  his  dead  mate, 
as  being  a  "cur'us  square  man,"  and  oc 
casionally  he  would  refer  to  the  presi 
dent  of  the  Off-shore  Wrecking  Com 
pany,  his  former  employer,  as  "that 
skin."  Such  information  as  I  did  gather 
about  his  earlier  days  was  fragmentary 
and  disconnected,  and  generally  came 
from  his  men,  who  idolized  him,  and 
who  had  absolute  belief  in  his  judgment 
and  the  blindest  confidence  in  his  cease- 

150 


less  care  for  their  personal  safety.  This  Captain 
care  was  necessary :  the  swiftness  of  the  -?oe 
current  and  sudden  changes  of  wind, 
bringing  in  a  heavy  southeast  roll,  sub 
merging  the  rock  at  wave  intervals, 
while  the  slippery,  slimy  surface  and  the 
frequent  falling  of  the  heavy  derricks 
made  the  work  extremely  dangerous. 
He  deserved  their  confidence,  for 
through  his  constant  watchfulness  but 
one  man  was  hurt  on  the  work  during 
the  six  years  of  its  construction,  and  this 
occurred  during  the  captain's  absence. 

One  morning  when  tacking  across  the 
Race  in  a  small  boat  in  a  stiff  breeze, 
with  only  the  captain  and  myself  for 
crew,  I  tried  to  make  him  talk  of  himself 
and  his  earlier  life,  and  so  said,  suddenly : 

"  Oh,  Captain  Joe  !  I  met  a  friend  of 
yours  yesterday  who  wished  me  to  ask 
you  how  you  stopped  the  leak  in  the 
Hoboken  ferry-boat,  and  why  you  left 
the  employ  of  the  Off-shore  Wrecking- 
Company." 

He  raised  his  eyes  quickly,  a  smile 
lighting  his  weather-beaten  face. 

"Who  was  it  —  the  president?"  He 
always  spoke  of  his  former  employer  in 
that  way. 

"Yes,  —  but  of  one  of  the  big  insur 
ance  companies ;  not  your  Wrecking 
Company." 


Captain  "  No,  reck'n  not.  He  ought  to  keep 
pretty  still  about  it." 

"Tell  me  about  it." 

"  Oh,  there  ain't  nothin'  to  tell.  She 
got  foul  of  a  tug,  and  listed  some,  and 
I  sorter  plugged  her  up  till  they  hauled 
her  into  the  slip.  Been  so  long  ago  I 
'most  forgot  about  it." 

But  not  another  word  could  be  coaxed 
out  of  him,  except  that  he  remembered 
that  the  water  was  "blamed  cold,"  and 
his  arm  was  "  pretty  well  tore  up  for  a 
month." 

That  night,  in  the  shanty  which  was 
built  on  the  completed  part  of  the  work, 
and  which  sheltered  the  working  force 
for  the  three  years  of  this  section  of  the 
construction,  were  gathered  a  crew  of  a 
dozen  men,  many  of  whom  had  served 
with  Captain  Joe  when  Jim  was  alive. 
While  the  captain  was  asleep  in  the 
little  wooden  bunk,  boarded  off  for  his 
especial  use,  the  ceaseless  thrash  of  the 
sea  sounding  in  our  ears,  I  managed, 
after  much  questioning  and  piecing  out 
of  personal  reminiscences,  to  gather 
these  details. 

One  morning  in  January,  two  years 
before,  when  the  ice  in  the  Hudson 
River  ran  unusually  heavy,  a  Hoboken 
ferry-boat  slowly  crunched  her  way 
through  the  floating  floes,  until  the 

152 


thickness  of  the  pack  choked  her  pad-  Captain 
dies  in  mid-river.  The  weather  had  ** 
been  bitterly  cold  for  weeks,  and  the 
keen  northwest  wind  had  blown  the 
great  fields  of  floating  ice  into  a  hard 
pack  along  the  New  York  shore.  It 
was  the  early  morning  trip,  and  the 
decks  were  crowded  with  laboring  men, 
and  the  driveways  choked  with  teams ; 
the  women  and  children  standing  inside 
the  cabins,  a  solid  mass  up  to  the  swing 
ing  doors.  While  she  was  gathering 
strength  for  a  further  effort,  an  ocean 
tug  sheered  to  avoid  her,  veered  a  point, 
and  crashed  into  her  side,  cutting  her 
below  the  water-line  in  a  great  V-shaped 
gash.  The  next  instant  a  shriek  went 
up  from  a  hundred  throats.  Women, 
with  blanched  faces,  caught  terror- 
stricken  children  in  their  arms,  while 
men,  crazed  with  fear,  scaled  the  rails 
and  upper  decks  to  escape  the  plunging 
of  the  overthrown  horses.  The  dis 
abled  boat  careened  from  the  shock 
and  fell  over  on  her  beam  helpless. 
Into  the  V-shaped  gash  the  water  poured 
a  torrent.  It  seemed  but  a  question  of 
minutes  before  she  would  lunge  head 
long  below  the  ice. 

Within  two  hundred  yards  of  both 
boats,  and  free  of  the  heaviest  ice, 
steamed  the  wrecking  tug  Reliance  of 
153 


Captain      the  Off-shore  Wrecking  Company,  mak- 
J0f  ing  her  way  cautiously  up  the  New  Jersey 

shore  to  coal  at  Weehawken.  On  her 
deck  forward,  sighting  the  heavy  cakes, 
and  calling  out  cautionary  orders  to  the 
mate  in  the  pilot-house,  stood  Captain 
Joe.  When  the  ocean  tug  reversed  her 
engines  after  the  collision  and  backed 
clear  of  the  shattered  wheel-house  of  the 
ferry-boat,  he  sprang  forward,  stooped 
down,  ran  his  eye  along  the  water-line, 
noted  in  a  flash  every  shattered  plank, 
climbed  into  the  pilot-house  of  his  own 
boat,  spun  her  wheel  hard  down,  and 
before  the  astonished  pilot  could  catch 
his  breath  ran  the  nose  of  the  Reliance 
along  the  rail  of  the  ferry-boat  and 
dropped  upon  the  latter's  deck  like  a 
cat. 

If  he  had  fallen  from  a  passing  cloud 
the  effect  could  not  have  been  more 
startling.  Men  crowded  about  him  and 
caught  at  his  hands.  Women  sank  on 
their  knees,  and  hugged  their  children, 
and  a  sudden  peace  and  stillness  pos 
sessed  every  soul  on  board.  Tearing  a 
life-preserver  from  the  man  nearest  him 
and  throwing  it  overboard,  he  backed 
the  coward  ahead  of  him  through  the 
swaying  mob,  ordering  the  people  to 
stand  clear,  and  forcing  the  whole  mass 
to  the  starboard  side.  The  increased 

154 


weight   gradually  righted   the   stricken  Captain 
boat  until    she  regained  a  nearly  even  3°e 
keel. 

With  a  threat  to  throw  overboard  any 
man  who  stirred,  he  dropped  into  the 
engine-room,  met  the  engineer  half-way 
up  the  ladder,  compelled  him  to  return, 
dragged  the  mattresses  from  the  crew's 
bunks,  stripped  off  blankets,  racks  of 
clothes,  overalls,  cotton  waste,  and  rags 
of  carpet,  cramming  them  into  the  great 
rent  left  by  the  tug's  cutwater,  until  the 
space  of  each  broken  plank  was  replaced, 
except  one.  Through  and  over  this 
space  the  water  still  combed,  deluging 
the  floors  and  swashing  down  between 
the  gratings  into  the  hold  below. 

"  Another  mattress,  quick !  All  gone  ? 
A  blanket,  then  —  carpet  —  anything 
—  five  minutes  more  and  she  '11  right 
herself.  Quick,  for  God's  sake  ! " 

It  was  useless.  Everything,  even  to 
the  oil-rags,  had  been  used. 

"Your  coat,  then.  Think  of  the 
babies,  man  ;  do  you  hear  them  ? " 

Coats  and  vests  were  off  in  an  instant ; 
the  engineer  on  his  knees  bracing  the 
shattered  planking,  Captain  Joe  forcing 
the  garments  into  the  splintered  open- 
ings. 

It  was  useless.  Little  by  little  the 
water  gained,  bursting  out  first  below, 
155 


Captain      then  on  one  side,  only  to  be  recaulked, 
and  only  to  rush  in  again. 

Captain  Joe  stood  a  moment  as  if  un 
decided,  ran  his  eye  search  ingly  over 
the  engine-room,  saw  that  for  his  needs 
it  was  empty,  then  deliberately  tore 
down  the  top  wall  of  caulking  he  had  so 
carefully  built  up,  and,  before  the  engi 
neer  could  protest,  had  forced  his  own 
body  into  the  gap  with  his  arm  outside 
level  with  the  drifting  ice. 

An  hour  later  the  disabled  ferry-boat, 
with  every  soul  on  board,  was  towed  into 
the  Hoboken  slip. 

When  they  lifted  him  from  the  wreck 
he  was  unconscious  and  barely  alive. 
The  water  had  frozen  his  blood,  and  the 
floating  ice  had  torn  the  flesh  from  his 
protruding  arm,  from  shoulder  to  wrist. 
When  the  color  began  to  creep  back  to 
his  cheeks,  he  opened  his  eyes,  and  said 
to  the  doctor  who  was  winding  the  ban 
dages  :  — 

"  Wuz  any  of  them  babies  hurt  ? " 

A  month  passed  before  he  regained 
his  strength,  and  another  week  before 
the  arm  had  healed  so  that  he  could  get 
his  coat  on.  Then  he  went  back  to  his 
work  on  board  the  Reliance. 

In  the  mean  time  the  Off-shore  Wreck- 


ing  Company  had  presented  a  bill  to  the  Captain 
ferry  company  for  salvage,  claiming  that  ** 
the  safety  of  the  ferry-boat  was  due  to 
one  of  the  employees  of  the  Wrecking 
Company.     Payment  had  been  refused, 
resulting   in   legal    proceedings,   which 
had   already  begun.     The  morning  fol 
lowing  this  action  Captain  Joe  was  called 
into  the  president's  office. 

"Captain,"  said  that  official,  "we're 
going  to  have  some  trouble  getting  our 
pay  for  that  ferry  job.  Here's  an  affi 
davit  for  you  to  swear  to." 

The  captain  took  the  paper  to  the 
window  and  read  it  through  without  a 
comment,  then  laid  it  back  on  the  presi 
dent's  desk,  picked  up  his  hat,  and 
moved  to  the  door. 

"  Did  you  sign  it  ? " 

"  No  ;  and  I  ain't  a-goin'  to." 

"Why?" 

"  'Cause  I  ain't  so  durned  mean  as 
you  be.  Look  at  this  arm.  Do  you 
think  I  'd  got  into  that  hell-hole  if  it 
had  n't  'a'  been  for  them  women  cryin' 
and  the  babies  a-hollerin'  ?  And  you 
want  'em  to  pay  for  it.  If  your  head 
wuzn't  white,  I  'd  mash  it." 

Then  he  walked  straight  to  the  cash 
ier,  demanded  his  week's  pay,  waited  un 
til  the  money  was  counted  out,  slammed 
the  office  door  behind  him,  and  walked 
157 


Captain      out,  cursing  like  a  pirate.    The  next  day 
he  answered  my  advertisement. 


The  following  year,  when  the  masonry 
was  rapidly  nearing  the  top  or  coping 
course,  and  the  five  years  of  labor  were 
bringing  forth  their  fruit,  the  foundation 
and  the  pier  being  then  almost  ready  for 
the  keeper's  house  and  lantern,  —  its 
light  has  flashed  a  welcome  to  many  a 
storm-driven  coaster  ever  since,  —  I  was 
sitting  one  lovely  spring  morning  over 
looking  the  sea,  the  rock  with  its  clus 
ter  of  derricks  being  just  visible  far  out 
on  the  water-line. 

Beside  me  sat  a  man  famous  in  the 
literature  of  our  country,  —  one  who  had 
embalmed  in  song  and  story  the  heroic 
deeds  of  common  men,  which  are  now, 
and  will  be,  household  words  as  long  as 
the  language  is  read.  To  him  I  out 
lined  the  story,  adding:  — 

"  It  is  but  half  a  mile  to  the  captain's 
cottage,  and,  being  Sunday  morning, 
we  shall  find  him  at  home ;  let  him  tell 
it  in  his  own  way." 

We  took  the  broad  road  skirting  the 
shore,  overlooking  the  harbor  with  its 
white  yachts  glinting  against  the  blue. 
High  up,  reveling  in  the  warm  sunlight, 


the  gray  gulls  poised  and  curved,  while  Captain 
across  the  yellow  marshes  the  tall  tower  3°e 
of  the  harbor  light  was  penciled  against 
the  morning  sky.  Over  old  fences, 
patched  with  driftwood  and  broken  oars 
and  festooned  with  fishermen's  nets, 
stretched  the  boughs  of  apple-trees 
loaded  with  blossoms,  and  in  scattered 
sheltered  spots  the  buttercups  and  dan 
delions  brightened  the  green  grass.  A 
turn  in  the  road,  a  swinging  gate,  a 
flagged  path  leading  to  the  porch  of  a 
low  cottage,  and  a  big  burly  fellow  held 
out  both  hands.  It  was  Captain  Joe. 
He  was  in  his  Sunday  best,  with  white 
shirt-sleeves,  his  face  clean-shaven  to 
the  very  edge  of  the  tuft  on  his  chin. 

With  a  child  on  each  knee,  the 
younger  a  new-comer  since  the  build 
ing  of  the  lighthouse,  he  talked  of  the 
"work,"  his  neighbors,  the  "wrack" 
the  winter  before,  — the  one  on  Fisher's 
Island,  when  the  captain  was  drowned, 
—  the  late  spring,  the  cussed  sou'east 
wind  that  kep'  a-blowin'  till  you  thought 
it  were  n't  never  goin'  to  wollup  round 
to  the  west'ard  again  ;  in  short,  of  every 
thing —  but  himself. 

My  beating  the  bush  with  allusions  to 
sinking  vessels,  collisions  at  sea,  suits 
for  salvage,  and  the  like  only  flushed  up 
such  reminiscences  as  fall  to  the  lot  of 
159 


Captain  seafaring  men  the  world  over  —  but  no 
thing  more.  In  despair  I  put  the  ques 
tion  straight  at  him. 

"  Tell  him,  Captain  Joe,  of  that  morn 
ing  in  the  ice  off  Hoboken,  when  you 
boarded  the  ferry-boat." 

He  would,  but  he  had  'most  forgot, 
been  so  long  ago.  So  many  of  these 
things  a-comin'  up  when  a  man's  bangin' 
round,  it 's  hard  to  keep  track  on  'em. 
Remembered  there  wuz  a  mess  of  peo 
ple  aboard,  mostly  women  and  babies, 
and  they  wuz  all  a-hollerin'  to  wunst. 
He  wuz  workin'  on  the  Reliance  at  the 
time,  —  captain  of  her.  Come  to  think 
of  it,  he  found  her  log  last  week  in  his 
old  sea-chest,  when  he  wuz  lookin'  for 
some  rubber  cloth  to  patch  his  divin'- 
suit.  If  his  wife  would  get  the  book 
out,  he  guessed  it  wuz  all  there.  He 
wuz  always  partic'ler  about  keepin'  log 
aboard  ship. 

When  the  old  well-thumbed  book  was 
found,  he  perched  his  glasses  on  his 
nose,  and  began  turning  the  leaves  with 
that  same  old  thole-pin  of  a  finger,  stop 
ping  at  every  page  to  remoisten  it,  and 
adding  a  running  commentary  of  his 
own  over  the  long-forgotten  records. 

"  January  23.  —  Yes  !  that 's  when 
we  worked  on  the  Hurricane.  She  was 
sunk  off  Sandy  Hook,  loaded  with  su- 

160 


gar ;    nasty   mess  that.     It   was   some-  Captain 
where  about  that  time,  for  I  remember  Joe 
the  water  wuz  pretty  cold,  and  the  ice 
a-runnin'.     Ah !  here  it  is.     Knowed  I 
had  n't    forgot    it.     You    can     read   it 
yourself ;  my  eyes  ain't  so  good  as  they 
wuz"  —  pointing  to  the  entry  on  the 
ink-stained  page. 

It  read  as  follows  :  — 

"  January  JO.  —  Left  Jersey  City  7 
A.  M.  Ice  running  heavy.  Captain 
Joe  stopped  leak  in  ferry-boat." 


VIII.   HUTCHINS 

IUTCHINS  lived  at  the 
foot  of  the  hill,  in  a  bat 
tered,  patched -up  shanty 
of  broken  windows  and 
half -hinged  doors.  The 
neighbors  told  queer  sto 
ries  about  this  rookery,  and  when  they 
could  passed  by  on  the  other  side. 
Time  had  stained  its  unpainted  boards 
a  dull  gray.  Untidy  women  hung  about 
the  porch  crowded  with  wash-tubs, 
while  cooking  utensils,  broken  pots,  and 
fragments  of  a  rusty  summer  stove  lit 
tered  the  steps  and  out-house  roof. 

The  only  spot  that  defied  the  filth 
and  squalor  was  a  little  patch  of  a  gar 
den  shut  in  by  a  broken  fence.  This 
held  a  dozen  rows  of  corn,  a  stray  stalk 
of  morning-glory  clinging  to  a  bent 
and  tottering  pole,  a  flaming  stand  of 
hollyhock,  and  a  few  overgrown  sprouts 
of  turnip  rioting  in  the  freedom  of 
their  neglect. 

Hutchins  himself,  except  at  rare  in 
tervals,  always  leaned  lazily  in  the 
propped-up  doorway,  a  ragged,  dirt-be 
grimed  tramp,  biting  savagely  at  the 

162 


end   of   a  clay   pipe.     Besotted,  blear-  Hutchins 
eyed  and  vulgar,  with  thin,  loosely  jointed 
legs  and  bent  shoulders,  he  looked  his 
reputation,  — the  terror  of  the  neighbor 
hood. 

Nobody  tried  to  understand  the  fam 
ily.  The  nearest  neighbors,  generally 
reliable  in  such  cases,  could  give  no 
clear  description  of  its  members,  for 
they  never  entered  his  door.  They  all 
agreed,  however,  upon  one  fact,  —  that 
the  tall  girl  who  worked  in  the  factory, 
and  who  had  come  home  three  years  be 
fore  to  nurse  another  baby,  —  this  time 
her  own,  —  was  Hutchins'  only  daugh 
ter. 

Outside  this  battered  wreck  of  a  home, 
with  its  frowzy  inmates,  Hutchins'  only 
possessions  were  a  pair  of  lean,  half-fed 
oxen  who  gained  a  scanty  living  by  nib 
bling  at  the  patches  of  grass  which  grew 
along  the  county  road.  Now  and  then 
in  the  haying  season,  or  when  the  heavy 
timber  was  hauled  to  the  mill,  or  the 
road  commissioners  repaired  the  high 
way,  their  owner  would  yoke  them  to  a 
sun-bleached,  unpainted  cart  as  shaky 
as  himself.  This  combination  in  the 
twilight,  when  his  day's  work  was  done, 
made  a  gruesome  picture,  as  it  stum 
bled  down  the  steep  wood  road  that  led 
by  one  side  of  my  house,  on  the  way 
163 


Hutchins  to  his  own.  He  never  walked  by  the 
head  of  his  oxen,  as  did  most  country 
men,  but  always  propped  himself  up  in 
his  cart,  his  slouching,  swaying  figure 
outlined  against  the  sky,  his  thin  legs 
hanging  below  the  tailboard.  When 
the  children,  guessing  his  condition,  - 
the  hire  of  the  cart  was  always  left  in 
the  tavern  at  the  fork  of  the  road,  — 
called  jeeringly  at  him,  he  would  slide 
off  the  board  and  begin  to  throw  stones. 
When  my  dog  ran  out,  he  would  coax 
him  near  and  then  lash  him  with  his 
whip.  These  idiosyncrasies  did  not 
endear  him  to  his  neighbors. 

I  have  always  had  a  sympathy  for  the 
man  who  is  down,  and  so,  when  I  met 
Hutchins  I  always  said  "  Good-morn 
ing  "  as  pleasantly  as  I  could.  I  never 
remember  having  said  much  else,  nor 
that  he  ever  made  any  other  reply  than 
a  nod  of  his  head  or  a  short  "  Mornin'  " 
hissed  out  between  his  teeth,  as  if  the 
effort  hurt  him. 

The  road  to  my  work  ran  by  Hutchins' 
gate,  and  there,  one  morning,  for  the 
first  time,  I  saw  the  little  golden-haired 
grandchild  who  had  furnished  the  win 
ter  nights'  gossip  for  three  years  past. 

When  this  day  I  stopped  and  spoke  to 
the  child,  Hutchins  slouched  out  from 
his  door,  called  to  her  mother,  and  when 

164 


the  child  cried  and  started  towards  me,  ffutchins 
caught  up  a  stick  angrily.  Something 
in  her  face,  or  perhaps  mine,  stopped 
him,  for  when  she  lifted  up  her  dimpled 
fingers  and  ran  towards  me  he  softened 
and  walked  sullenly  away. 

Little  by  little  the  child  and  I  became 
fast  friends.  She  would  toddle  out  to 
watch  for  me  when  I  passed  by  in  the 
morning,  her  hair  flying  in  the  wind. 
Sometimes,  too,  she  would  thrust  her 
chubby  sunburned  hand  through  the 
broken  palings  and  toss  out  a  gay -colored 
hollyhock  that  blossomed  low  enough 
on  its  stalk  for  her  to  reach. 

As  the  friendship  grew  it  ripened 
into  an  intimacy  that  finally  culminated 
in  her  walking  with  me  one  day  as 
far  as  the  little  bridge  over  the  brook. 
These  confidential  relations  seemed  to 
impart  their  flavor  to  the  rest  of  the 
family.  I  noticed  that  my  little  friend 
seemed  less  untidy,  and  one  morning 
her  outcast  of  a  mother,  hearing  my 
voice,  put  a  clean  apron  over  her  own 
head,  thus  recognizing  the  unkempt 
condition  of  her  hair.  As  for  Hutch- 
ins,  although  he  never  offered  to  speak 
first,  he  would  somehow  manage  to  have 
his  hat  in  his  hand  when  I  approached, 
—  his  best  attempt  at  a  courtesy.  If, 
however,  he  held  me  in  any  different 
165 


Hutchins  esteem  from  the  rest  of  his  neighbors, 
or  rather  if  he  hated  me  the  less,  there 
was  nothing  in  his  manner  to  show  it, 
except  the  slight  evidences  I  have  in 
dicated. 

When  I  lost  my  setter  dog,  search 
was  made  in  the  village,  and  up  and 
down  the  highway  as  far  as  the  stage 
went.  The  farmers,  of  course,  accused 
Hutchins.  Everything  from  the  rob 
bing  of  a  hen-roost  to  the  big  burglary 
of  the  county  bank  was  laid  at  his  door. 
At  first  I  was  a  little  suspicious,  and  to 
test  his  knowledge  of  my  loss  offered 
a  reward.  A  week  later  I  found  the 
dog  tied  to  my  door,  and  the  next  day 
learned  from  my  foreman  that  the  poor 
fellow  had  followed  a  gunner,  and  that 
Hutchins,  hearing  of  it,  had  walked 
twelve  miles  to  the  next  village  to  bring 
him  back.  When  I  taxed  him  with  it 
he  made  no  answer,  and  when  I  handed 
him  the  reward  he  dropped  the  bank 
note  on  the  ground  and  lounged  off 
whistling. 

Winter  came,  and  my  work  was  still 
unfinished.  Affairs  at  Hutchins'  were 
unchanged.  The  house  perhaps  looked 
a  little  more  tumbled-down,  —  the  ga 
ble  ends,  porch,  and  sloping  roof  hug 
ging  the  big  chimney  the  closer,  as  if 
they  feared  the  coming  cold.  The  neigh- 

166 


bors  still  avoided  the  place,  the  women  Hutckins 
pretending  not  to  see  the  daughter  when 
she  passed,  and  the  men  leering  at  her 
when  they  dared. 

As  for  the  daughter,  my  acquaintance 
with  her  had  never  extended  beyond 
a  word  now  and  then  about  the  child, 
which  was  always  answered  in  a  half- 
frightened,  shrinking  way. 

One  blustering  night  —  it  was  the  last 
week  in  December  —  I  was  sitting  in 
my  room  alone  studying  some  plans 
of  a  coffer-dam  for  the  better  protec 
tion  of  a  submarine  foundation  I  was 
building,  when  there  came  a  sharp 
knock  at  the  outer  door.  I  expected 
one  of  my  men,  and,  catching  up  the 
lamp,  shot  back  the  bolt  and  raised  the 
light  aloft.  A  gust  of  snow  chilled  my 
face,  nearly  extinguishing  the  flame. 
Outside  the  snow  lay  in  drifts,  the 
lower  branches  of  the  cedars  being  half 
buried,  while  the  stretch  to  the  lower 
gate  was  an  unbroken  sheet  of  white. 
Around  the  corner  of  the  porch  my 
eyes  caught  the  marks  of  a  straggling, 
uneven  footstep  ;  and  beyond,  hurrying 
over  the  lower  fence,  I  could  barely 
distinguish  the  outline  of  a  shrunken, 
shambling  figure.  It  was  Hutchins. 

Stooping  over  to  bring  in  the  mat, 
now  wet  with  snow,  my  mind  filled  with 
167 


Hutchins  the  strange  visit  and  the  stranger  hur 
ried  disappearance,  my  hand  touched  a 
bundle  tied  with  a  cotton  cord.  It  had 
evidently  been  laid  there  but  a  moment 
before.  It  was  hard  and  round  and 
wrapped  in  a  newspaper. 

I  brought  it  to  my  fire  and  cut  the 
string.  Inside  was  a  huge  turnip  the 
size  of  my  two  fists  ;  fastened  to  it  was  a 
sprig  of  holly.  I  looked  up,  and  my  eye 
fell  on  the  calendar  upon  my  mantel. 

It  was  Christmas  Eve. 


IX.  SIX  HOURS  IN  SQUAN- 
TICO 

QUANTICO  was  not  my 
destination. 

I  confess  to  hearing 
from  my  berth  in  the 
Pullman,  when  the  train 
stopped  in  the  depot,  all 
the  customary  sounds,  —  the  bumpings 
and  couplings  of  the  cars,  the  relieved 
"whuff !  "  of  the  locomotive  catching  its 
breath  after  the  night's  run,  the  shouts 
of  the  hackmen,  and  the  rumbling  of 
the  baggage  trucks.  I  remember  also 
the  "  Dust  you  off,  sir,"  of  the  suddenly 
attentive  porter  levying  blackmail  with 
his  brush,  the  glare  of  the  lanterns,  and 
blinding  flash  of  the  head-light.  All 
this  came  to  me  as  I  lay  half  awake 
in  my  section,  but  —  it  did  not  suggest 
Squantico. 

On  the  contrary,  it  meant  prospective 
peace  and  comfort,  and  another  hour's 
nap,  when  I  would  finally  be  side-tracked 
outside  the  station  in  Washington.  So 
I  turned  over  and  enjoyed  it. 

Experience  teaches  me  that  the  going 
astray  of  the  best  laid  plans  is  not  con- 
169 


Six  Hours  fined  wholly  to  men  and  mice  ;  it  in- 
eludes  Pullmans. 

My  first  intimation  of  disaster  came 
from  the  expectant  blackmailer. 

"  Eight  o'clock,  sir ;  last  berth  occu 
pied." 

More  positive  data  proceeded  from 
the  conductor,  who  clicked  a  punch  un 
der  my  nose  and  blurted  out,  "  Tickets  !  " 

I  fumbled  mechanically  under  my  pil 
low,  and,  remembering,  said  sleepily, 
"  Gave  them  to  you  last  night." 

"  Not  to  me.  Want  your  tickets  for 
Richmond." 

I  sat  up.  Whole  rows  of  people 
dressed  for  the  day  were  quietly  and  con 
tentedly  occupying  their  seats.  All  the 
berths  had  been  swept  away.  My  cur 
tains  alone  dangled  from  the  continuous 
brass  rod.  Every  eye  in  the  car  was  fas 
tened  on  my  traveling  bedroom. 

"  I  am  not  going  to  Richmond.  I  get 
off  at  Washington." 

"  Wrong  car,  sir.  Left  Washington 
two  hours  ago." 

"  Stop  at  the  next  station,"  I  gasped, 
grabbing  my  coat. 

The  conductor  peered  through  the 
car  window,  pulled  the  bell-rope,  and 
shouted,  "All  out  for  Squantico  !"  The 
next  moment  I  was  shivering  in  a  pool 
of  snow  and  water,  my  bag  bottom  side 

170 


up,  the  rear  of  the  retreating  train  rilling  Six  Hours 
a  distant  cut.  £/****" 

A  man  in  a  fur  hat  and  blue  overcoat 
cast  his  eye  my  way,  picked  up  a  mail- 
pouch  from  a  half -melted  snow-bank,  and 
preceded  me  up  a  muddy  road  flanked 
by  a  worm-fence.  I  overtook  him,  and 
added  my  bag  to  his  load. 

"  When  can  I  get  back  to  Washing 
ton?" 

"  Ten  minutes  past  two." 

I  made  a  hurried  calculation.  Six 
hours !  Six  hours  in  a  hole  like  this  ! 

It  was  not  a  cheery  morning  for  land 
ing  anywhere.  January-thaw  mornings 
never  are.  A  drizzling  rain  saturated 
everything.  A  steaming  fog  hung  over 
the  low  country,  drifted  out  over  the 
river,  and  made  ghosts  of  the  piles  of  an 
unfinished  dock.  The  mud  was  inches 
deep  under  the  snow,  which  lay  sprawl 
ing  out  in  patches,  covering  the  ground 
like  a  worn-out  coat.  A  dozen  cheaply 
constructed  houses  and  stores  built  of 
wood  fronted  on  one  side  of  a  broad 
road.  Opposite  the  group  was  a  great 
barn  of  a  building,  with  its  doors  and 
lower  windows  boarded  up.  This  was 
the  hotel. 

Before  I  had  turned  the  road  I  had 
learned  all  that  could  possibly  interest 
me  :  the  hotel  was  closed ;  Colonel  Jar- 
171 


Six  Hours  vis  kept  a   store  third  house  from  the 
inSguan-  corner .  and  Mrs>  jarvis  couid  get  me  a 

breakfast. 

The  man  with  the  pouch  exchanged 
my  bag  for  a  dime,  pointed  to  a  collec 
tion  of  empty  dry-goods  boxes  ranged 
along  the  sidewalk  ahead,  and  disap 
peared  within  a  door  bearing  a  swing 
ing  tin  sign  marked  "  Post-Office."  I 
rounded  the  largest  box,  climbed  the 
steps,  and  entered  the  typical  country 
store. 

"  Is  Colonel  Jarvis  in  ? " 

Four  men  hugging  a  cast-iron  stove 
pushed  back  their  chairs.  One —  a  lank, 
chin-bearded  Virginian  —  straightened 
himself  out  and  came  forward.  He  wore 
a  black  slouch  hat,  a  low-cut  velvet  vest 
with  glass  buttons, —  all  gone  but  two,  — 
a  shoestring  necktie,  and  a  pair  of  car 
pet  slippers  very  much  run  down  at  the 
heel.  The  only  redeeming  points  about 
him  were  his  voice,  which  though  clogged 
with  the  richest  of  Virginia  dialects  was 
still  soft  and  flexible,  and  his  manners, 
in  which  were  visible  some  slight  out- 
croppings  of  a  gentility  buried  with  the 
preceding  generation.  Regarded  from 
the  point  of  view  of  a  traveler  half  awake, 
hungry,  wet,  and  wholly  disgusted,  his 
appearance  only  helped  to  intensify  the 
discomforts  of  the  situation. 

172 


"  I  'm  Kurnal  Jarvis,  zur.     What  kin  Six  Hours 
I  do  for  you?"   '  %S0quan~ 

"  I  am  adrift  here,  and  cannot  return 
for  some  hours.  The  mail  man  said  per 
haps  Mrs.  Jarvis  would  get  me  a  cup  of 
coffee." 

The  colonel  smiled  unctuously ;  re 
plied,  with  a  wave  of  his  hand,  that  he 
did  not  keep  a  hotel,  or  in  fact  a  house 
of  entertainment  of  any  kind,  but  that 
since  the  closing  —  he  should  say  the 
collapse  —  of  the  Ocomoke  Hotel  he  had 
prevailed  upon  Mrs.  Jarvis  to  spread  a 
humble  table  for  the  comfort  and  resto 
ration  of  the  wayfarer  and  stranger.  If 
I  would  do  him  the  honor  of  preceding 
him  through  the  folding-doors  to  the 
right,  he  would  conduct  me  to  Mrs.  Jar- 
vis,  a  chop,  and  a  cup  of  coffee. 

I  did  him  the  honor  at  once,  and  was 
the  next  moment  confronted  by  a  little 
woman  in  a  brown  calico  dress,  who  hung 
my  wet  coat  on  a  clothes-horse  by  the 
fire  with  so  many  expressions  of  sym 
pathy  that  my  heart  was  won  on  the 
spot. 

The  breakfast  was  fairly  good,  al 
though  the  vivid  imagination  of  the  colo 
nel  was  not  wholly  realized,  —  Mrs.  Jar- 
vis  substituting  hot  corn  -  bread  and  a 
sliver  of  bacon  for  the  chop,  and  filling 
my  cup  with  a  weak  decoction  of  toasted 
173 


Six  Hours  sweet-potato  skins  and  chicory  in  place 

"Squan-    Qf   the  diyine  essence  Qf  old  Mocha. 

Comforted  by  her  gentle  manner,  and 
glad  of  any  excuse  to  kill  time  until  the 
2.10  train  should  rescue  me  from  what 
promised  to  be  a  most  forlorn  experi 
ence,  I  drew  from  her,  little  by  little, 
not  only  her  own  history,  but  that  of  her 
unfortunate  neighbors. 

It  seemed  that  some  years  back  a  cap 
italist  from  New  York,  uniting  with 
other  money-bags  from  Richmond,  had 
fixed  upon  the  town  of  Squantico  as 
presenting,  by  reason  of  its  location,  ex 
traordinary  advantages  for  river  and  rail 
transportation ;  that,  in  pursuance  of 
this  scheme,  they  had  bought  up  all  the 
land  in  and  around  the  village,  had 
staked  out  numerous  avenues  and  town 
lots,  erected  an  imposing  hotel  sur 
mounted  by  a  cupola,  and  had  started 
an  immense  pile  dock  trampling  out  into 
the  river  ;  that  they  had  surveyed  and 
partly  graded  a  certain  railroad,  de 
scribed  as  a  "  sixty-pound  steel-rail  and 
iron-bridge  road,"  having  one  terminus 
on  the  wandering  dock,  and  the  other  in 
a  network  of  arteries  connecting  with 
the  "  heart  of  the  whole  Southern  sys 
tem  ;  "  that,  besides  these  local  and  con 
tiguous  improvements,  such  small  trifles 
as  a  court-house  of  granite,  a  public 

174 


school  of  brick  with  stone  trimmings,  Six  Hours 
extensive  water-works,  and  ridiculously  '£jquan~ 
cheap  gas  were  to  be  immediately  erected 
and  introduced.  All  these  enlargements, 
improvements,  and  benefits  were  duly 
set  forth  in  a  large  circular,  or  hand 
bill,  with  head-lines  in  red  ink,  a  fly- 
specked  copy  being  still  visible  tacked 
up  behind  the  colonel's  bar.  In  addition 
to  these  gratuities,  large  discounts  were 
offered  to  the  earliest  settlers  purchas 
ing  town  lots  and  erecting  structures 
thereon,  the  terms  being  within  reach 
of  the  poorest,  —  one  fourth  cash,  and 
the  balance  in  three  yearly  installments 
of  an  equal  amount. 

Beguiled  by  these  conditions  and  pros 
pects,  the  colonel  had  sold  her  farm 
on  the  James  River,  —  it  was  all  she  had 
in  the  world,  an  inheritance  from  her 
father's  estate,  —  had  moved  their  house 
hold  effects  to  Squantico,  paid  the  first 
installment,  and  erected  the  store  and 
dwelling.  This  had  absorbed  their 
means. 

All  went  well  for  the  first  year,  or  un 
til  the  hotel  was  finished.  Then  came 
the  collapse.  One  morning  all  work 
ceased  on  the  dock  and  railroad.  An 
other  capitalist,  of  pointedly  opposite 
views  from  the  original  group  of  projec 
tors,  had  gobbled  up  the  road-bed  of  the 
175 


Hours  projected  railway,  and  had  carried  its 
terminus  far  out  of  reach  of  Squantico, 
and  miles  down  the  river.  This  had  oc 
curred  some  three  years  back. 

Since  that  date  a  complicated  melan 
choly  had  settled  down  over  Squantico  ; 
the  proprietors  of  the  hotel  had  closed 
its  doors  from  sheer  famine,  —  not  so 
much  from  want  of  something  to  eat  as 
for  want  of  somebody  to  eat  it,  —  the  un 
finished  dock  had  gone  to  decay,  and  the 
town  to  ruin.  Squantico  had  shriveled 
up  like  a  gourd  in  a  September  frost. 

Nor  was  this  all.  Since  the  collapse 
no  one  had  been  able  to  meet  the  second 
payment  on  the  land  ;  the  original  capi 
talists  wanted  their  pound  of  flesh  ;  fore 
closure  proceedings  had  already  been 
begun,  and  the  act  of  dispossession  was 
to  be  taken  at  the  next  spring  term  of 
the  county  court.  Everybody  in  the 
village  was  in  the  same  plight.  "  And 
indeed,  sir,"  she  added  with  a  break  in 
her  voice,  "what  is  to  become  of  us!  It 
will  seem  so  hard  to  have  no  home  at 
all." 

I  did  what  I  could  to  divert  her 
thoughts  from  her  impending  misfor 
tunes  by  telling  her  something  of  my 
trip  the  night  before,  extracting  for  her 
benefit  what  little  humor  the  situation 
afforded,  and  then,  leaving  her  to  the 

176 


care  of  her  dishes,  started  out  into  the  •?«•  Hours 
store.  ^fff$tan' 

The  colonel  widened  the  circle  about 
the  stove,  turned  to  the  three  other 
chair  holders,  and  introduced  me  as  "  My 
friend,  Major" —  and  paused  for  my 
name.  As  I  did  not  supply  it,  he 
glanced  toward  my  bag  for  relief,  caught 
sight  of  a  baggage  label  pasted  across 
one  end,  marked  "B.,  Room  — ,  N.  Y.," 
and  went  straight  on,  as  serene  as  an 
auctioneer  with  a  fictitious  bid. 

"  Broom,  —  Major  Broom,  —  gentle 
men,  from  New  York." 

The  occupants  stood  erect  for  an  in 
stant,  looked  at  me  from  under  the  rims 
of  their  hats,  and  sank  into  their  chairs 
again. 

If  the  title  was  a  surprise  to  me,  I 
being  a  plain  landscape-painter,  without 
capitals  of  any  kind  before  or  after  my 
patronymic,  the  effrontery  of  displacing 
it  by  an  express  company's  check  simply 
took  away  my  breath.  But  I  did  not 
correct  him.  It  was  not  worth  the  while. 
He  thanked  me  with  his  eye  for  my  for 
bearance,  and  placed  a  chair  at  my  dis 
posal. 

This  eye  of  the  colonel,  by  the  way, 
was  not  the  least  interesting  feature  of 
his  face.  It  was  a  moist,  watery  eye, 
suggestive  of  a  system  of  accounts  kept 
177 


Six  Hours  mostly  in  chalk  on  a  set  of  books  cover- 
i!icoquan'  ing  half  the  swinging  doors  in  the 
county.  From  between  these  watery 
spots  protruded  a  sharp,  beak-like  nose. 
My  host  connected  these  two  features 
by  placing  his  forefinger  longitudinally 
along  his  nose  until  the  nail  closed  the 
right  optic,  and  remarked,  in  a  dry,  husky 
voice,  that  it  was  about  his  time,  and 
would  I  join  him  ?  Instantly  three  pairs 
of  legs  dropped  from  the  stove  rail,  an 
equal  number  of  chairs  were  emptied, 
and  their  occupants  filed  through  a 
green  door  with  the  paint  worn  off  be 
low  the  knob.  I  excused  myself  on  the 
ground  of  a  late  breakfast,  and  while 
they  were  absent  made  an  inspection  of 
the  interior.  It  consisted  of  one  long 
room,  on  each  side  of  which  ran  a  pine 
counter.  This  was  littered  up  with 
scraps  of  wrapping  paper,  a  mouldy 
cheese  covered  by  a  wire  fly  screen, 
some  cracker  boxes,  and  a  case  with  a 
glass  top  containing  small  piles  of  plug 
tobacco  and  some  jars  of  stick  candy. 
Behind  these  counters  were  ranged  pine 
shelves,  holding  the  usual  assortment  of 
hardware,  dry  goods,  canned  vegetables, 
and  groceries.  On  the  bottom  shelf  lay 
a  grillage  of  bar  soap,  left  out  to  dry. 
All  the  top  shelves  were  packed  with 
empty  boxes,  —  labels  outside,  — indicat- 


ing  to  the  unpracticed  eye  certain  proba-  Six  Hours 
ble  commercial  resources.  ™co  qua 

Outside  the  rain  fell  in  a  drizzle,  and 
the  fog  settled  in  wavy  wreaths.  Along 
the  road  staggered  a  single  team  — 
horse  and  mule  tandem  —  harnessed,  or 
rather  tied  up,  in  clothes  -  lines,  and 
drawing  a  cart  as  large  as  a  shoe  box, 
loaded  with  cord-wood,  the  whole  fol 
lowed  by  a  negro  clothed  in  cowhide 
boots,  an  old  army  coat,  and  a  straw 
hat.  The  movement  was  slow,  but  sure 
enough  to  convince  me  that  they  had 
not  all  died  in  their  tracks  overnight. 

I  followed  this  team  with  my  eye 
until  the  fog  swallowed  it  up ;  watched 
a  flock  of  geese  pick  their  way  across 
the  road,  the  leader's  nose  high  in  the 
air,  as  if  disgusted  with  the  day ;  went 
over  in  my  mind  the  delay  of  preparing 
the  breakfast,  the  time  lost  in  its  dis 
posal,  the  long  talk  with  Mrs.  Jarvis, 
and  my  many  experiences  since,  and 
concluded  that  it  must  be  high  noon. 
I  looked  at  my  watch,  and  a  chill  crept 
down  my  spine.  It  was  but  a  quarter 
past  nine ! 

Five  hours  more ! 

Disheartened  but  not  wholly  cast 
down,  I  rummaged  over  a  lot  of  wrap 
ping  paper,  borrowed  a  pencil,  and  made 
outline  sketches  of  some  pigeons  drying 
179 


Six  Hours  their  feathers  under  the  eaves  of  the 
l?ico  quan~  stable  roof ;  interviewed  the  boy  feeding 
the  pigs ;  listened  enviously  to  their 
contented  grunts  ;  and  at  last,  in  sheer 
desperation,  returned  to  the  store  and 
sat  down.  The  hours  were  leaden. 
Would  I  never  get  away  ?  Soon  I 
began  to  have  murderous  intentions 
toward  the  porter.  I  remembered  his 
exact  expression  when  he  promised  the 
night  before  to  wake  me  at  eight  o'clock. 
I  could  have  sworn,  on  thinking  it  over, 
that  he  knew  I  was  in  the  wrong  car, 
and  had  concealed  the  fact,  tempted  by 
the  opulence  expressed  in  my  new  Lon 
don  bag.  I  felt  that  it  had  all  been  a 
devilish  scheme  to  rob  me  of  a  double 
quarter,  and  throw  me  out  into  the  mud 
in  this  thaw-stricken  town. 

In  my  broodings  I  began  to  take  in 
the  colonel,  following  his  movements 
around  the  store,  wondering  whether 
he  was  not  in  the  conspiracy,  and  had 
set  the  clock  back  to  insure  my  missing 
the  train. 

A  moment's  reflection  convinced  me 
of  the  absurdity  of  all  my  misgivings, 
and  I  resolved  to  rise  to  the  occasion. 
Mark  Tapley  could  have  made  a  gala-day 
of  it.  I  would  brace  up  and  study  the 
citizens. 

The  colonel  was  waiting  on  a  customer, 

1 80 


—  the  only  real  one  I  had  seen,  —  a  mu-  Six 
latto  girl  with  a  jug.  &?*"**' 

"  Misser  Jarvis,  Miss  'Manthy  sez  dat 
thimble  w'at  you  sent  her  las'  week  wuz 
ur  i'on  thimble,  an'  she  want  ur  steel 
one.  An'  she  sez  ef  yer  ain't  got  no 
steel  one  she  want  ur  squart  o'  molasses." 

" Where's  the  thimble?"  said  the 
colonel. 

"  I  drap  it  in  de  snow-bank  out  yer,  — 
'deed  an'  double  I  did,  —  an'  I  'most  froze 
lookin'  fur  't." 

The  colonel  sighed. 

While  he  was  filling  the  jug,  an  old 
man  in  an  overcoat  made  from  a  gray 
army  blanket,  and  dragging  by  the  muz 
zle  a  long  Kentucky  rifle,  straggled  in 
and  asked  for  a  box  of  percussion  caps 
and  half  a  pound  of  powder.  Then  rest 
ing  his  shooting-iron  against  the  counter, 
and  pushing  his  long,  skinny,  cramped 
hands  through  his  coat  -  sleeves,  he 
opened  out  his  thin  fingers  before  the 
stove  and  ventured  the  remark  that  it 
was  "  right  smart  chilly." 

"Any  game,  uncle  ? "  I  inquired. 

"  Mostly  turkeys,  zur  ;  but  they 's  git- 
tin*  miz'ble  sca'ce  lately.  'Fo'  de  wah 
't  warn't  nuthin'  to  git  a  passel  of  tur 
keys  'fore  breakfas'.  But  you  can't  git 
'em  now.  Dese  yer  scand'1'us-back 
ducks  is  mo'  plenty  than  they  wuz ;  but 
181 


Six  Hours  ther  ain't  no  gret  shucks  on  'em  nary 
**•«*-  way." 

The  colonel  handed  the  old  man  his 
ammunition,  replaced  a  cracker  box, 
threw  his  legs  over  the  counter,  and 
took  the  chair  next  me,  his  heels  on  the 
rail. 

"  Here  on  business,  major  ? " 

"  No  ;  pleasure,"  I  replied  wearily. 

"  Sorry  the  weather  is  so  bad,  zur ; 
Squantico  is  not  looking  its  best.  Had 
you  been  here  some  few  years  ago, 
it  would  have  looked  dif'rent  to  you, 
zur." 

"  You  mean  before  the  scheme  start 
ed?" 

"  Scheme  or  swindle,  either  way,  zur. 
Perhaps  you  know  Mr.  Isaac  Hoyle  ?  " 

I  expressed  my  ignorance. 

"  Or  have  heard  of  the  Squantico 
Land  and  Improvement  Company  ? " 

I  was  equally  at  fault,  except  what  I 
had  learned  through  Mrs.  Jarvis. 

"Then,  zur,  you  are  in  no  way  con 
nected  with  the  gang  of  scoundrels  who 
would  rob  us  of  our  homes  ? " 

I  assured  him  that  he  had  hit  it  ex 
actly. 

"  Allow  me  to  shake  you  by  the  han', 
zur,  and  offer  you  an  apology.  We  took 
you  for  a  lawyer,  zur,  from  New  York, 
come  down  about  these  fo'closure  pro- 

182 


ceedin's.      Will   you   join   me  ?  "      All  Six  Hours 
the  legs  came  down  simultaneously  with 
a  bang,  but  my  firmness  prevailed,  and 
they  were  slowly  elevated  once  more. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  about  the 
matter  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  What  can  we  do,  zur  ?  We  are 
bound  hand  and  foot.  We  are  prostrate, 
zur,  prostrate." 

"  Do  ? "  said  I,  a  ray  of  hope  lighting 
up  my  spirits.  Perhaps,  after  all,  there 
were  mitigating  circumstances  about 
this  enforced  imprisonment.  "  Would 
you  have  built  this  house  if  Hoyle  had 
not  agreed  to  build  his  railroad  ?  " 

"  Of  co'se  not,"  said  the  colonel. 

"  Did  he  build  ? " 

"  Not  a  foot." 

"  Did  you  ? " 

"  Certainly." 

"Well, then,  colonel,  sue  Hoyle." 

The  colonel  rose  from  his  chair  and 
fixed  upon  me  his  drier  eye.  The  loun 
gers  straightened  up  and  formed  a  circle. 

"Are  there  any  water-works,  granite 
school-houses,  city  halls,  and  other  such 
metropolitan  luxuries  around  ? "  I  con 
tinued. 

The  colonel  shook  his  head. 

"  Had  these  been  erected,  and  had  the 
programme  as  marked  out  in  that  be 
spattered  circular  behind  your  door  been 
183 


Si*  Hours  carried  out,  would  you  be  as  poor  as  you 
5»*""  are>  or  would  you  not  now  have  a  ware 
house  across  the  road  to  hold  your  sur 
plus  stock,  and  three  wagons  constantly 
backed  up  before  your  door  to  serve 
your  customers  ?  I  tell  you,  sue  Isaac 
Hoyle." 

"Kurnal,"  said  Jarvis,  —  I  did  not  cor 
rect  the  promotion,  —  "  would  you  have 
any  objection  to  elucidate  yo'  views  be- 
fo'  some  of  our  leadin'  citizens  ?  They 
indicate  a  grasp  of  this  subject,  zur, 
which  is  giant-like,  —  yez,  zur,  giant-like! 
Jedge  Drummond  and  Gen'ral  Lownes 
are  at  this  moment  in  the  post-office, 
—  two  ve'y  remarkable  men,  zur,  quite 
our  fo'most  citizens.  Might  I  send  for 
'em?" 

"I  would  be  delighted  to  meet  the 
gentlemen."  It  might  consume  an  hour. 
"  Send  for  them,  my  dear  sir ;  nothing 
would  give  me  greater  pleasure." 

"  Here,  Joe,"  said  the  colonel,  calling 
a  negro  who  had  lounged  in  from  the 
road,  and  was  now  hovering  on  the  out 
side  of  the  circle  ;  "g'w'up  to  the  post- 
office,  and  tell  Jedge  Drummond  and 
Gen'ral  Lownes  to  come  yer  quick." 
The  boy  shuffled  out,  and  Jarvis  laid  his 
hand  on  my  shoulder.  "  It 's  a  pleasure, 
kurnal,  a  gen-u-ine  pleasure,  zur,  to  meet 
a  man  of  yo'  calibre.  Allow  me  to  grasp 

184 


yo'  han',  and  ask  you  before  the  arrival  Six  Hours 
of  my  friends  to  "  —  £/^a*~ 

There  was  a  slight  movement  toward 
the  green  door  with  the  paint  worn  off, 
but  I  checked  it  before  the  sentence  was 
complete. 

"  No !  Well,  zur,  we  will  make  it  later. 
By  the  way,  kurnal,  before  I  forget  it," 
—  the  colonel  locked  his  arm  through 
mine  and  led  me  aside,  —  "  do  not  offer 
Mrs.  Jarvis  any  compensation  for  yo' 
breakfast.  She  conies  of  a  very  high 
family,  zur,  and  has  a  very  sensitive  na 
ture.  Of  course,  if  you  insist,  I  "  —  and 
my  trade  dollar  dropped  without  a  sound 
into  his  desolate  pocket.  "  Here,  boy  ! 
Did  you  fin'  the  gentlemen  ?" 

"De  gin'ral  done  gone  duckin',  sah, 
'fore  daylight,  but  the  jedge  say  he  is 
comin'  right  away  scat." 

The  judge  was  on  the  boy's  heels.  As 
he  entered,  his  eye  wandered  restlessly 
toward  the  paint-worn  door.  He  had 
evidently  misunderstood  the  message. 
I  arose  to  greet  him,  the  ring  of  listeners 
widening  out  to  do  justice  to  the  im 
pending  ceremony.  While  the  colonel 
squared  himself  for  the  opening  address, 
I  took  in  the  general  outline  of  the  judge. 
He  was  the  exact  opposite  of  my  host, — 
a  short,  fat,  shad-shaped  man  of  some 
fifty  years  or  more,  whose  later  life  had 

• 


six  Hours  been  spent  in  a  ceaseless  effort  to  keep 
his  clothes  up  snug  around  the  waist, 
his  failures  above  being  recorded  in  the 
wrinkles  of  his  almost  buttonless  coat, 
and  his  successes  below  in  the  bagging 
of  his  trousers  at  the  knee.  He  wore 
low  shoes  that  did  not  match,  and  white 
cotton  stockings  a  week  old.  A  round, 
good-natured  face,  ornamented  by  a  mus 
tache  dyed  brown  and  a  stump  of  a  cigar, 
surmounted  the  whole. 

"Jedge  Drummond,"  began  the  colo 
nel,  "I  sent  my  servant  for  you,  zur, 
to  introduce  you  to  my  ve'y  particular 
friend,  Gen'ral  Broom,  of  the  metrop 
olis,  zur,  who  is  visiting  the  South,  and 
who  dropped  in  upon  us  this  morning  to 
breakfast.  Gen'ral  Broom,  zur,  is  one 
of  the  most  remark'ble  men  of  the  day, 
and,  although  a  soldier  like  ourselves, 
has  devoted  himself  since  the  wah  to  the 
practice  of  the  law,  and  now  stands  at 
the  zenith,  the  ve'y  zenith,  zur,  of  his 
p'ofession." 

The  judge  expressed  himself  as  over 
whelmed,  extended  three  fingers,  and 
corrugated  his  vest  pattern  into  wrinkles 
in  the  effort  to  squeeze  himself  between 
the  arms  of  a  chair.  Jarvis  then  con 
tinued  :  — 

"  Gen'ral  Broom  is  deeply  interested 
in  the  misfortunes  which  have  overtaken 

1 86 


Squantico,  and  has  given  expression  to  Six  Hours 
some   ideas   lookin'   to'ards  our   vested  i£cf*mH~ 
rights  which  are  startlin',  zur.     Gen'ral, 
will  you  kindly  repeat  yo'  views  to  the 
jedge?" 

I  did  so  briefly.  To  my  mind  it  was 
simply  a  matter  of  contract.  A  grasp 
ing  land  company  had  staked  out  a  com 
parative  wilderness,  and  as  an  induce 
ment  to  innocent  investors  and  settlers 
had  made  certain  promises,  which,  under 
the  circumstances,  were  binding  agree 
ments.  These  agreements  covered  the 
erection  of  certain  important  municipal 
buildings,  public  conveniences,  and  im 
provements,  together  with  a  hotel,  a 
dock,  and  a  railroad.  Only  a  fraction,  a 
very  small  fraction,  of  these  had  been 
carried  out.  I  would  remind  them,  fur 
thermore,  that  these  agreements  were 
distributed  broadcast,  and  if  not  in  writ 
ing,  were  in  print,  which  in  this  case  was 
the  same  thing.  Relying  on  these  docu 
ments,  certain  capitalists,  like  my  friend 
Colonel  Jarvis,  had  invested  a  very  large 
portion  of  their  surplus  in  erecting 
structures  suitable  only  for  a  city  of  con 
siderable  commercial  importance.  The 
result  was  a  matter  of  history.  Squan 
tico  had  yielded  to  a  pressure  greater 
than  she  could  bear. 

Judge  Drummond  closed  both  eyes  as 


Six  Hours  if  in  deep  thought,  shifted  his  cigar,  and 

^lcfquan'   remarked    that    the   argument   "was   a 

sledge-hammer."     He  was  delighted  at 

the  opportunity  of  knowing  a  man  with 

so  colossal  a  grasp. 

The  store  began  filling  up,  —  the  hur 
ried  exit  of  the  boy  and  the  instantane 
ous  return  of  the  judge  having  had  its 
effect  on  the  several  citizens  who  had 
witnessed  the  occurrence.  With  each 
new  arrival  I  was  obliged  to  make  a 
fresh  statement,  the  colonel  enlarging 
upon  my  abilities  and  rank  until  I  began 
to  shudder  lest  he  should  land  me  either 
in  the  White  House,  or  upon  the  Su 
preme  Bench. 

I  was  beginning  afresh  on  the  last  ar 
rival  —  a  weazen-faced  old  fellow  with 
one  tooth  —  when  a  fog-choked  whistle 
sounded  down  the  river,  and  every  man 
except  Jarvis  and  the  judge  filed  out, 
crossed  the  road,  and  waited  on  the  end 
of  the  unfinished  dock  until  a  wheezy 
side-wheel  boat  landed  a  negro  woman 
and  a  yellow-painted  trunk.  This  ab 
sorbing  ceremony,  paralyzing  the  indus 
tries  of  Squantico,  I  learned,  occurred 
every  day.  As  soon  as  the  excitement 
calmed  down  and  order  had  been  re 
stored,  Jarvis  executed  a  peculiar  sign 
with  his  left  eye ;  three  citizens,  includ 
ing  the  judge,  understood  it,  followed 

1 88 


him  into  a  corner,  consulted  for  a  mo-  Six 
ment,  and   returned,  the   colonel   lead- 
ing. 

"  Major-Gen'ral  Broom,"  said  he,  pla 
cing  his  hand  on  his  heart,  "  yo'  masterly 
anal'sis  of  our  rights  in  this  fo'closure 
matter  convinces  us  that,  if  we  are  to 
be  protected  at  all,  we  must  place  our 
selves  in  yo'  han's.  We  know  that  yo' 
duties  are  overwhelmin'  and  yo'  time  pre 
cious  ;  but  if  you  would  consent  to  accept 
a  retainer,  and  appear  for  these  cases  at 
the  spring  meeting  of  the  county  co'te 
in  April,  we  shall  consider  them  settled. 
What  amount  would  you  fix  ?  " 

The  idea  appalled  me,  but  I  was  in 
for  it.  "  Gentlemen,"  I  said,  "your  con 
fidence,  stranger  as  I  am  to  most  of  you, 
is  embarrassing.  As  my  main  purpose 
would  be  to  wrest  from  this  grasping 
monopoly  property  which,  if  not  yours, 
should  be,  I  would  be  willing  to  accept 
only  a  small  portion  of  the  amount  I 
might  recover  as  my  fee "  —  at  this 
point  Jarvis  had  great  difficulty  in  re 
straining  the  outburst  —  "  together  —  to 
gether,  gentlemen,  with  a  trifling  cash 
payment  "  —  the  noise  moderated  — 
"  which  could  be  placed  in  the  hands  of 
Colonel  Jarvis,  to  be  used  for  prelimi 
nary  expenses." 

A  dead  silence  ensued.     My  selection 


Six  Hours  for  stake-holder  had  evidently  cast  a 
chill  over  the  room.  This  hardened  into 
a  frigid  disapproval  when  the  judge,  voi 
cing  the  assemblage,  remarked  that  the 
"  colonel  would  take  good  care  of  all  the 
cash  he  would  get."  Had  not  Mrs.  Jar- 
vis  announced  dinner,  the  situation 
would  have  become  oppressive.  The 
colonel  punctured  the  stillness  by  in 
stantly  subscribing  for  his  proportion, 
and  asked  the  judge  what  amount  he 
would  contribute.  That  legal  luminary 
rose  slowly,  picked  up  a  crumb  of  cheese 
that  had  escaped  the  fly  screen,  and  re 
marked  that  he  would  look  over  the  list 
of  his  real  estate  and  see.  An  audible 
smile  permeated  the  crowd,  the  old 
sportsman's  share  widening  into  a  grin, 
with  an  aside  all  to  himself :  "  Real 
'state  ?  Golly !  Reckon  he  kearries 
mos'  of  it  on  his  shoes." 

"  My  dear,"  said  the  colonel,  as  we 
followed  his  wife  into  the  dining-room, 
"  you  of  co'se  understan'  that  to-day  my 
old  friend  the  gen'ral  is  our  guest." 

That  gentle  lady,  who  had  borne  the 
heat  and  burden  of  my  entertainment 
alone,  only  replied  with  her  eyes.  I 
dropped  another  coin  of  the  realm  into 
the  colonel's  pocket  to  alleviate  the  lone 
liness  of  my  contribution  of  the  morning, 
lifted  my  hat  to  the  sad  little  woman, 

190 


who  watched  us  wistfully  through  the  &*  Hours 

half-opened   door,   her  apron   over  her  *£ffua 

head,  and  took  up  my  line  of  march  to 

the  station   with   just   ten   minutes   to 

spare,  the  colonel  carrying  my  bag,  and 

about  all  the  male  population  of  Squan- 

tico  serving  as  escort  except  the  judge, 

who  excused  himself  on  the  ground 

that  he  had  "  left  his  rubbers 

in    his    office."     When    I 

go  South  now,  I  pass 

Squantico  in  the 

night. 


VERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA    LIBRAE? 
BERKELEY 

THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE~0^  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 

^z^ArS^  §£.5- 


.xniration  of 


AUG  25  1917 
15  1918 


10  1919 


APR  80  U-24 


NOV  28 

ZUi  2.-  I 


•i      I  M 


10  **» 

tf   291920 


LftD 


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IMI 


^<^-* 


292001 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


